
Glass JEEJi. 
Book Aj_ 



THE 



WHEEL OP FORTUNE; 



A COMEDY* 



BY R. CUMBERLAND, ESQ, 



I NEW-YORK: 

PUBLISHED BY DAVID LONGWORTH, 

At the Dramatic-Repository, 
Shaksfiearc- Gallery, 

1818. 



/ ^ *? 1 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 




Sir David Daw . 

Governor Tempest 

Penruddock . 

Woodville 

Sydenham . 

Henry Woodville 

Weazel 

Woodville's Servant 

Officer 

Jenkins 

Richard 

Harry 

Thomas 

Mrs. Woodville 
Emily Tempest , 
Dame Dunckley 
Maid . 



Philadelphia. 
Mr. Francis. 
Warren. 
Cooper. 
Abercrombie, 
Wood. 
Barrett. 
Blissett. 
Jackson. 
Jones. 
- Durang. 
Hathwell. 
C. Durang.. 
King. 

Mrs. Jefferson. 
Wood. 
Simfison. 
Seymour. 



Scene, for the first act, Penruddock's Cottage — for 
the rest, in London. 









:?THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I — the cottage of Penruddock^ seated in a 
group of treesy with a forest scene of wood and 
heath. 

enter wsazel, in a travelling dress. 

Weaz. Was ever gentle traveller, since the days 
of R(^binson Crusoe, so put to his shifts, as I, Timo- 
thy Weazel, attorney at law ? I have lost my guide, 
my guide has lost himself, and my horse has abscond- 
ed, with bridle, saddle, and all his shoes, save one he 
left behind him in a slough. I saw a fellow setting 
springs for woodcocks, and show*d him signals of dis- 
tress ; but the carle ran off at the sight of me, and 
vanish'd like a jack o'lantern. If 1 understood the 
language of birds, there is not one within call to an- 
swer to a question ; the creatures have got wings, and 
are too wise to stay in such a place. — Hold, hold ! I 
see a hut, or a hovel, or a Laplander's lodge, behind 
these trees ; and here comes one hobbling upon two 
shanks and a crutch, a proper sample of the soil she 
■withers in — Halloa ! dame, do you hear ? Give me 
a word with you, if your senses can afford it. 



^ 



WHEEL [Cumberland 



enter dame dunckley. 

Dame. What would you have with me ? what is 
youf business here ? 

Weaz. You're right, it must be business ; nobody 
would come here for pleasure. 

Dame No, nor is this a house of call for travellers. 

Weaz. That I can believe, if you are the represen- 
tative of it ; that is., as I may say, luce clarius. 

Dame There's no such person here, so you may 
go your ways, before my master sends you packing. 

Weaz. You have a master, have you ? Call him 
out then, and let him direct me in my road to Rode- 
rick Penruddock, esquire, and I'll reward him for 
his pains. 

Dame. You'll reward. my master! Saucy compa« 
nion ! If Roderick Penruddock is the gentleman you 
want, you need not go any further — there he lives. 

Weaz. There you lie, I believe. Penruddock in 
that cottage ? 

Dame. Why not ? will you face me out, who have 
liv'd with him these twenty years ? And what if it 
be but a cottage ? content is every thing ; my good 
master is not proud. 

Weaz. Melancholy, I should think, if a constant 
memorandum of mortality can make him so. — He was 
cross'd in love in his younger days. 

Dame That I know nothing of. 

Weaz. I don't say you was in the fault of it. 

Dame. He is a man of few words, to be sure ; but 
then he has a world of learning in his head ; ever- 
lastingly at his books. 

Weaz Is he at *em now ? 

Dame. Deep, not to be approach'd. 

Weaz And alone ? 

Dame To be sure; I never disturb him in hift 
hours of study ; at every other time he's kind and 
gentle as the dew of heaven. 



Act /] OF FORTTNE. 5 

Weaz. What am I to do then, who have come some 
hundred miles upon his business ? 

Dame. Ev*n what you please, sir ; I*m sure it is 
no business of mine, and I'll have nothing to do with 
it. {stefis aside) 

Weaz. Well, if he will not welcome the good news 
I bring him, he must be a philosopher indeed. I'll 
begin my approaches cautiously, however — the door 
is fast — I'll touch it tenderly — Within there! who's at 
home ? — Silence and famine, I should guess, for no- 
thing stirs. 

Dame [from aside) Go on, go on. By the living, 
my fine spark, I would not be in your place for a 
little. 

Weaz. Not yet ? this will never do. Good fortune 
may be warranted to rap a little louder.— What, hoa ! 
within, I say !— Will nobody hear me ? 

{Penruddock opens the casement) 

Pen. I hear you : what is it you want ? 

Weaz. With your leave, I want a few words with 
you. 

Pen. Send *em in at the window then, and the fewer 
the better. 

Weaz. I bring you news out of Cornwall j news of 
great consequence. 

Pen. Who are you, and what are you ? 

Weaz. Timothy Weazel, of Lestwithiel, attorney 
at law, and agent to sir George Penruddock : let me 
into your house. 

Pen. Keep on the outside of it, if you please ; I'll 
deal with you in the open air. {shuts the casement') 

Weaz. Here's a surly humour : here's a pretty 
freak of fortune, to pile bags of money on the back of 
an ass, who only kicks against the burthen ; I war- 
rant, if the sky rain'd gold, this churl would not hold 
out his dish to catch it ; but we shall soon see what 
stuff his philosophy is made of; good chance if I 
don't shake his metaphysics out of him ere long. O 



6 WHEEL [Cumberland 

ho ! I've bolted him, however.— Zooks ! what a hea- 
then philosopher it is. 

PENRUDBOCK afifieava. 

Pen. Now, mr. attorney, what have you to say, for 
thus disturbing my whole family ? what have I done, 
or the poor cat, my peaceable companion, that thus 
the boisterous knuckles of the law should mar our 
meditations? 

Weaz. Truly, sir, I was compelled to make some 
little noise ; your castle is but small — 

Pen. It*s big enough for my ambition. 

Weaz. And passing solitary. 

Pen. I wish you had suffered it to be silent too. 

Weaz. In faith, sir, if I knew how to be heard 
without a sound, 1 would gratify your wish ; but if 
your silence suffers by my news, I hope your happi- 
ness will not. 

Pen. Happiness ! what's that ? I am content, I en- 
joy tranquillity ; heav*n be thank'd, I have nothing to 
do with happiness. 

Weaz. There you are beyond me, sir. If an hum- 
ble fortune, and this poor cottage give you content, 
perhaps great riches and a splendid house would not 
add to it. 

Pen. Explain your meaning, friend ; I don't under- 
stand you. 

Weaz. In plain words, then, you are to know, that 
your rich relation, sir George Penruddock, is de- 
ceas'd. / 

Pen. Dead ! 

Weaz. Defunct ; gone to his ancestors ; whipp'd 
away by the sudden stroke of an apoplexy : this mo- 
ment here, heaven knows where the next : Death 
will do it when he likes, and how he likes; I need 
not remind you. sir, who are so learned a philosopheri 
how frail the tenure of mortality. 



Act /] OF FORTUNE. 7 

Pen. You need not, indeed ; if sir George thought 
as seriously of death before it happened, it may have 
been well for him ; but his thoughts, I fear, were 
otherwise employed. 

Weaz. I niuch doubt if ever he thought at all ; he 
was a fine gentleman, and liv'd freely. 

Pen. No wonder, then, he died suddenly^but how 
does this apply to me ? 

Weaz. No otherwise than you are the heir of every 
thing he possess'd : I have the will in safe keeping 
about me ? 

Pen. Have patience ; this is somewhat sudden ; I 
am unprepared for such an event ; 'twas never in my 
contemplation : I was in no habits with sir George, 
never courted him, never corresponded with him ; 
the small annuity, 'tis true, on which I have subsisted, 
was charg'd on his estate, and regularly paid, but 
here he never came; man could not be more oppo- 
site to man ; he worshipped Fortune, I despis'd her ; 
I studied closely, he gam'd incessantly—— 

Weaz. And won abundantly — if money be your 
passion, you'll find plenty of it. 

Pen. What should I do with money ? 

Weaz. Money, indeed ! — why money is— in short, 
what is it not ? 

Pen. Not health, melhinks, not life — for he that 
had it, died. 

Weaz. But you that have it, live — and is there no- 
thing that can tempt you ? Recollect — books — money 
will buy books; nay, more, it will buy those who 
write them. 

Pen. It will so. 

Weaz. 'Twill purchase panegyrics, odes, and dedi- 
cations — 

Pen. I can't gainsay it. 

Weaz. House, table, equipage, attendants- 
Pen. I have all those : what else? 

Weaz. Ah, sir, you surely can't forget there are 



8 . WHEEL [Cumberland 

such things in this world as beauty, love, irresistible 
woman — {Dame Dunckley crosses the stage) 

Pen. 1 keep a woman ; she visits me every day, 
makes my bed, sweeps my house, cooks my dinner^ 
and is seventy years of age — yet I resist her. 

Weaz. I could say something to that, but I am 
afraid it will offend you ? 

Pen, Say on boldly ; never fear me. 

Weaz, Why, truly, sir, I find you of a very differ- 
ent temper from what I expected : I should doubt if 
your philosophy has made you insensible ; I am sure 
it hiis not made you proud. 

Pen. 1 am as proud in my nature as any man ought 
to be, but surely as humble as any man can be. 

Weaz. Suffer me then to ask you if there is not a 
certam lady living, Arabella Woodville by name, 
whom you once thought irresistible, and who even 
now perhaps might put your philosophy to a harder 
trial than the old dame of seventy, who does the 
drudgery of your cottage ? 

Pen. Who told you this ? how came you thus to 
strike upon a name, that twenty years of solitude have 
not effac'd ? 

Weaz. Because I would prepare you for a task that 
with the fortune ycu inherit must devolve upon you. 
The interests of this lady, perhaps even her existence, 
are now in your hands. When I shall deliver the 
deeds bequeathed to you by your cousin, I shall arm 
you with the means of extinguishing the wretched 
Woodville at a blow. 

Pen. What is it you tell me? Have a care how 
you reverse my nature with a word. Woodville in 
my power! VVoodville at my mercy! If there's a 
man on earth that can inspire me with revenge, it is 
that treacherous, base, deceitful rival : 1 was in his 
power, for I lov'd him — he betray'd me ; I was at his 
mercy, for I trusted him — he destroyed me. 

Weaz. Now then you'll own that money can give 
something, for it gives revenge. 



Mt 7] OF FORTUNE. 9 

Pen. Come on ; my mind is made up to this for- 
tune ; to the extremest atom I'll exact it all : the mi- 
ser's passion seizes on my heart, and money, which I 
held as dirt, is now my deity. 

[exeunt^ enter the cottage 



SCENE changes to another part of the forest. 

enter wooDviLLE,yb//owfrf by his servant. 

Wood Go, go, begone !— Why do you follow me ? 

Serv. I pray you, sir, don't dismiss the chaise in 
this wild plnce ; let it convey you to the next town, 
and then pursue your journey as you please. 

Wood. Don't talk to me, don't trouble me ; my 
journey's at an end. 

Serv You have been up all night : your mind and 
body both require some rest. 

Wood. What if they do ! can you administer to 
agonies like mme ? How dare you thus intrude ? by 
what authority have you, my servant, made yourself 
a spv upon my actions ? 

Serv. By no authority, but that of my affection and 
good will : you have been kind to me in your prospe- 
rity, ought I to desert you in adversity ^ Indeed, in- 
deed, sir, I can't leave you here alone. 

Wood. Foolish, officious fellow, I perceive you 
think I have lost my senses ; no, 1 possess them 
clearly ; I know both where I am and what I have 
to do — had I designs against myself, you could not 
hinder them ; but I have none ; 'tis not my own life 
but your's that is in danger, unless you instantly de- 
part. Look! here is your dismission — I am resolute 
to be obey'd. {draws a pistol) 

Serv. Take my life ; fire when you please : I'm 
not afraid of dying. 

B 



.^ 



10 WHEEL [Cumberland 

enter Sydenham. 

Syd Woodville, what ails you ? are you mad ? do 
you fight duels with your own servant ? 

Wood. Duels ! 

Syd. You're right : I see he is not arm'd. What 
the devil and all his doings possesses you to point your 
pistol at a naked man ? if you consider him your 
equal, giv« him the fellow to it : if you would punish 
him as your servant, turn him away. 

li^ood. But he will not be turn'd away. 

Serv. Not whilst it was my duty to stay by you ; 
now mr. Sydenham is come, I will intrude no longer. 

[exit 

Syd. Harry Woodville, are you in your senses to 
act in this manner ? 

Wood. Are you not out of yours, to come thus far 
to ask me such a question ? 

Syd. Perhaps I am, but there's no reasoning about 
friendship : when I see a fellow, whom I love, throw 
awav his happiness, game away his fortune, and thea 
run from the ruin he has made, I have a foolish na- 
ture about me, that, in spite of all his phrenzy, will 
run after him ; and tho' he may break loose from all 
the world beside, damn me if he shall shake off me, 
tho' he had twenty pistols in his reach, and I not one 
in mine. 

Wood. Your friendship, mr. Sydenham, is not want- 
ed at this moment, and give me leave to say it is un- 
welcome. 

Syd. Very likely ; I care little about the welcome 
that you give me, as I am not quite sure you are the 
man I was in search of: my friend was a gentleman, 
the' an unwise one ; he would hear reason, though he 
was unapt to follow it; above all things, he was not 
that fr-'intic desperado, as to turn his pistol either 
against his servant or himself. 

Wood. Well, sir, my pistol is put up — now what 
have you to say to me. 



Act /] OF FORTUNE. 11 

Syd. I don't know if I shall say any thing to you ; 
certainly nothing to sooth you. It is not because a 
man has pistols in his pocket, that he is formidable, 
or that I should flatter him ; every fellow, that has 
not spirit to face misfortune, vay be his own assas- 
sin ; every wretch, who has lost all frelings of huma- 
nity, may commit a murder on his fellow-creaiure. 

Wood. You are very bitter ; what would you have 
me do? 

Syd. Return to your affiicred wife. 

Wood. That I can never do ; my home is horrible ; 
nor am I in possession of a home ; P^ nruddock's myr- 
midons are in my house ; besides, iheie*s worsi- than 
that, my son is come to England, Heoiy will be upon 
me, and to meet his gallant injur'd presence would be 
worse than death. 

Syd, I wish you had reflected on that horror, whilst 
there was time to have prevented it. — If fathers, 
whilst their sons are bleeding in their e. untry's b-it- 
tlesj will hurl the fatal dice, and stake their fortunes 
on the cast, alas for their posterity ! 

Wood. Why urge that dreadful truth? you have 
no son, you are no gamester. 

Syd. No matter ; though I never gam'd myself, 
my friends did, and I have lost them : who has more 
cause to curse his luck than I have ? 

Wood. Have you now vented all your spleen, and 
will you leave me ? 

Syd, I am not sure : tell me what plan you are 
upon ; why are you rambling on this heath ? 

WoQd, Pll tell you that at once — Sir George Pen* 
ruddock, my chief creditor, is dead ; he has bequeath'd 
his fortune to his cousin Roderick of that name. 
This man inhabits a small tenement here close at 
hand ; a strange sequester'd creature, burying him- 
self amongst his books, disgusted with the world, and 
probably a perfect misanthrope — 

Syd. Tve heard of him : go on ! 

Wood. This Roderick and I were school-fellows, 



12 WHEEL [Cumberland 

studied together at the university, travelled together 
through most parts of Eitrope ; and were inseparable 
friends, till, by evil chance, we became rivals in love : 
I obtained mrs. Woodville's hand, and married her ; 
he was excluded, and renounced society : this man, 
the bitterest enemy I have, is now the master of my 
fate. 

Syd. Then I conclude those pistols are for him. 

Wood I do not quite say that ; he shall have a fair 
alternative 

Syd. I much doubt if any thing can be fair when 
one party has just gain'd a fortune, and the other lost 
one : however, if you mean it should be fair, take me 
with you ; whether you shake hands or exchange 
shots, I will see justice done on both sides ; for I will 
be bold to aver, there never yet was an affair, in 
which I had the honour to be either a principal or 
second, where equity was not as strictly administered, 
as if my lord chancellor had decreed it from the 
bench. 

Wood Be it so then, if so it must be : come with 
me then to this newly enrich*d cottager, and it I fail 
in this last effort, I exact from you an honourable se- 
crecy and an immediate secession. [exeunt 

SCENE returns to the cottage. 

PENRUDDOCK alone. 

Pen. This property's immense. Woodville's proud 
house is mine ; now that false friend is punish *d ; all 
those scenes of gay prosperity, with which he caught 
the vain weak heart of Arabella, are suddenly re- 
versed, and just retaliation, not less terrible, bee use 
so tardy, surprizes him at last. Farewell, my cottage ! 
scene of my past content, 1 thank thee : possessing 
nought but thee, I have not envied palaces ; possest 
of them, I have forsaken thee ; such is man's fickle 
nature, in solitude a piiilosopher, wise in adversity, 



^ct /] OF FORTUNE. 13 

and only patient under injuries till opportunity occurs 
to him of revenging them. 

enter woodville and Sydenham. 

Wood. That's he ; the very man — Sir, let me hope 
I have happily encountered you ; 1 believe I am ad- 
dressing myself to mr. Penruddock. 

Pen I am Penruddock. 

Wood. Perhaps you have lost the recollection of 
my person. 

Pen. I wish I had — You have left some traces of 
it in my memory, mr. Woodville ; and nothing is more 
opposite to my desires than to revive them. 

Wood. That this would be my greeting I expected ; 
for though i ever knew you to be just, yet, in our ear- 
liest years, I thought 1 could discover dawnings of a 
relentless nature. If twenty years of calm reflection 
have passed away without assuaging your determin'd 
animosity, an opportunity is now before you of hatch- 
ing that revenge which you have brooded on so long. 

Pen Pursue your own reflections, sir, and inter- 
rupt not mine, {going) 

Syd. Stop, if you please — I am no party in this 
conference, but as a common friend to every thing 
that wears the face of man : I can perceive you have 
been wrong'd, in lime long past, bv this gentleman ; 
so have I, recently and deeply wrong'd. inasmuch as 
he has abus'd my friendship, by ruining himself in 
defiance of my better counsel — What then ? he is 
sorry for it, and I forgive him ; he is in misery, and I 
pity him. 

Pen. Well, sir, at your remonstrance 1 will stay ; 
only be pleas'd to let me know for whose sake I sub* 
mit myself to mr. Woodville's conversation ? 

Syd. I am a very idle fellow, sir ; Sydenham my 
name ; one that has thrown away much good will 
upon his friends, without once practising your happy 
art of being unmov'd by their misfortunes. 

B 2 



U WHEEL [Cumberland 

Pen. Humph ! — Mr. Woodville will proceed. 

Wood. If you, mr. Penruddock, can find no motive 
to forgive the wrongs I did you in the matter of my 
marriage, I shall suggest none, neither will I offer at 
one word in mitigation of those wrongs ; they were as 
great as you believe them ; greater, perhaps, than 
you are perfectly apprized of. In the first glow of 
your resentment, you demanded satisfaction ; in jus» 
tice, I must own that your appeal was warranted, but 
I was then a happy man, with beauty in my arms, 
and fortune at my feet, and I evaded it. Now, if 
your heat is not cool*d, and you still thirst for revenge, 
lo ! I am ready ; I have arms for both, fit to decide 
our quarrel, and an honourable friend competent to 
adjust it. {firoduces pistols) 

Syd. Fairly proposed — if such is your pleasure, 
gentlemen both, I am perfectly at your disposal. 

Pen. Give me the pistol : place your man where 
you like ; this is my ground 

Syd. Stop, sir, the forms of honour are not yet 
complete— Mr. Woodville, if 1 rightly understood you, 
you have an alternative to propose, if that be so, state 
it. 

Pen, I have little disposition to bear any trifling. 

Wood. Nor I to trifle ; therefore, no more of it ! a 
woman's mediation can be of no avail : however, mr. 
Sydenham, if I fall, give this to the survivor. 

{Jiresents a packet) 

Syd. Ha ! mrs. Woodville's hand — this must not be 
rejected : an angel's mediation claims respect, and he 
must read it, or make his passage through my body, 
ere he shall approach you. — Woodville, disarm your- 
self {takes his pistol) — iMr. Penruddock, this packet 
is address'd to you ; take it ; but first, if you please, 
give me your weapon, as he has done. — Now I main- 
tain an armed neutrality, {takes both pistols) 
{Penruddock withdraws aside^ opens the packet yfie^ 

ruses it a while ^ and then retires into his cottage ; 

whilst this is/iassingy Sydenham speaks as follows) 



Act /] OF FORTUNE. 15 

Syd. It staggers him — he pauses ; yet I perceive 
no change — he flies, however, and we keep the field. 
—Do you know tlie purport of that paper ? 

Wood. I know nothing of its purport, but by con- 
jecture ; 'twas written by Arabella since she heard 
of his accession to the fortune of sir George, and pro- 
bably contains a strong appeal to his feelings, founded 
upon past connections ; I have reason to believe it 
chiefly points at my son, who has so long been a pri- 
soner in France, and now at last has got his liberty 
upon exchange ; but I dare say this churl is stecl'd 
against humanity. 

Syd, 1 know not what to think of him ; that man's 
soul has no flow : impenetrable frost locks up its cur- 
rent : therefore be prepar'd. — And now, Harry, if 
you have any thing upon your mind to encharge me 
with, avail yourself of the moment, and impart it to 
me ; the issue of these rencontres is uncertain. 

Wood. Alas ! 1 have been so improvident a hus- 
band, that I dare hardly send my last farewell to my 
much-injur'd wife : so unjust a father, that I have 
scarce presumption to bequeath a blessing to my son. 
In temporal affairs I am so totally undone, and life is 
now so perfectly a blank, that he who takes it from me, 
takes what I am tired of ; and I solemnly conjure my 
family never to stir the question of my death, nor 
prosecute the author of it. 

Weaz. {from the cottage) Gentlemen, I am com- 
manded by mr. Penruddock to say that he is very 
particularly occupied, and declines any further ex- 
planation on the business of your visit : you will hear 
from him again. 

Wood. At his own choice and leisure ; so inform 
him. 

Syd. Come, Woodville, we have thrown that cynic 
cur a bone, so let him gnaw it. [exeunt 



16 WHEEL [Cumberland 



ACT n. 

SCENE I— a chamber in Temfiest's house, 

enter tempest and emily. 

'Temfi Go your ways, vanish out of my sight, for a 

graceless young hussey t You know I love you, 

Emily, you know I do, dear as the eyes in nny head, 
better than the heart in my body, and therefore you 
baffle, and bamboozle, and make a bumpkin of me ; 
th: t's what you do: you see I am a damn'd fond 
forgiving old fool, and you impose upon my good na- 
ture. 

Emily. No very hard task, I should hope. Only 
call upon you now and then for a few grains of cha-? 
ritable patience. 

Temp. Grains of charitable nonsense, grains of hy- 
pocritical inapertinence : what business have you to 
make any calls upon me that you know I car . an- 
swer ? I have no such thing as patience abc^'Jl »ne, no 
such dull mechanical property belonging to me; never 
had. never will have, never wish to have. 

Emily. Well, sir, let it pass then ; but you must 
own it's a little unreasonable to expect that I should 
abound in that article, of which you, my father, do not 
possess a single atom ? 

Temp. Not at all unreasonable, for your mother was 
a utiracle of patience ; I am sure I put it very suffi- 
ci«*n«ly to the trial : why I took her with no other 
viewbutas we takeadiet-drink in the spring, to sweet- 
en the juices. Tempest, the son of lord Hurricane, 



Jet /] OF FORTUNE. 17 

was never born to be calm ; 'sblood and fire ! I have 
never been in smooth water since first I was launch*d 
upon the surface of the globe I was a younger son, 
and kick'd into the world without sixpence ; my fa- 
ther gave me no education, taught me nothing, kept 
me in ignorance, and buffetted me every day tor be- 
ing a dunce. 

£mily. That was hard indeed, to give so little, and 
demand so much — but some fathers are quite out of 
the way of reason. 

Temp. That*s a wipe at me, I suppose, but no mat- 
ter — First I was turned into the army, there I got 
broken bones and empty pockets ; then I was banish- 
ed to the coast of Africa, to govern the savages of 
Senegambia ; there I made a few blunders in colour, 
by taking whites for blacks and blacks for whites ; 
but before my enemies could get hold of me, death 
laid hands upon them, and I triumphed over their 
malice by the mortaUty of the climate. 

Kmily. Upon my word,*sir, you have been toss'd 
and tumbled about in this rough world pretty hand- 
somely. 

Temfi. Yes, so handsomely that I will take care 
you shan't be toss'd and tumbled about, till you have 
a good pilot on bo rd, and a safe harbour under your 
lee to lie up in for life. 

Rmily. That's a^ much as to say, I shall embark 
with sir David Daw, and lie up in his fusty old cas- 
tle on the banks of the Wye, in Monmouchshire, to 
wit. A precious pilot I shall have, and a fa;nous 
voyage we shall make of it ! — Helm d-vreather ! cries 
he, and bear away for the coast of Wales ! H-.' m 
a-lee ! say I, and set all sails for the port of Loudon. 
He is for steering wesi, I am for steering east ; so, be- 
tween us, we run wild out of the track, and make a 
wreck of ship and cargo, in the scuffle for command. 

Ttmfi. You talk nonsense, Emily, you gabble with- 
out wit oi wisdom. Sir David D^w is a very res- 
pectable gentleman in his own country. 



IS WHEEL [Cumberland. 

Emily. Then he is a very silly gentleman for com- 
ing out of it. 

Temfi He has a noble property, a capital estate. 

Emily. Thanks to his ancestors !— he'll never mend 
it b\ rue discovery of the longitude. 

Temfi, Emily, Emily, do you think I have no eyes ? 
what do you take me for — a mole, a bat, a beetle, not 
to see where your perverse affections point ? you are 
never out of mrs, Woodville's house. 

Emily. Can that be a wondei , when Persecution 
drives me out of your doors, and Pity draws me into 
tier's ? here I am baited by the silliest animal Folly 
ever lent her name to, there I am recreated by the 
gentlest being heaven ever formed. 

Temfi. Come, come, whilst you are talking thus of 
the mother, I know to a certainty it is the son you 
are thinking of; and positively, Emily, you must ba- 
nish Henry Woodville from your thoughts. 

Emily Then I must lose tne faculty of thinking. 

Temfi. Don't tell me o# your faculties, mine will 
never consent to marry you to a ruin'd man— Sir Da- 
vid is no gamester — 

Emily. Perhaps not. 

Temfi Nor the son of a gamester, 

Emily No, nor the son of any thing, I should think, 
that nature ever own'd ; for he is so far from being 
in the likeness of a man, that it would be libelling a 
monkey to mistake them for each other. 

Temfi. Hold your tongue. I never said sir David 
was a wit. 

Emily. No, o* ray conscience, a tailor might as well 
look for custom in the court of Pellew, as you for wit 
in the empty pericranium of my Monmouthshire 
lover. 

Temfi And if he had wit, what would you do with 
it ? who would put a naked sword in the hands of a 
child •• I like him the better tor his being without it:; 
I hfve none myself, I had sooner me^s wnli-ihe sa- 
vages in Africa, than be shut into a room with a coni« 



Act II] OF FORTUNE. 19 

pany of wits. Your downright stupid fellow, is the 
repose of all society ; like a soft cushion in an easy 
chair, he lulls you into gentle slunnbers, and lays all 
your cares to rest. 

servant announces sir david daw. 

Serv. Sir David Daw— ^exie 

Tem/i. Now, now, Emily, behave as you should do, 
or, by the living 

Welcome, sir David ! welcome, my good knight of 
Monmouth ! 

Sir David. Worthy governor, I am your devoted 
servant— sweet paragon of beauty, I am your humble 
slave. 

Temfi. Heyday, my friend, where have you cull'd 
these flowers of rhetoric ? 

Sir David. Pick*d a small posey from Parnassus, 
to lay it at the feet of the loveliest of the muses. 

Emily. Upon my word, sir David, your periods are 
the very embrios of poetry, a kind of tadpoles, more 
than half frogs, just ready to hop. 

Sir David. So they can but hop into your good 
graces, I care not. 

Temji. Right, my gallant heart, that's the way to 
treat her — Emily is for ever giggling. 

Sir David. She is not singular in that : go where 
I will, they giggle ; that is rather daunting, you must 
think. Amongst our Monmouthshire lasses, who but 
I ? Not that I am conscious of more wit than my 
neighbours, but my jokes always tell ; they do so tit- 
ter, when I am in my merry vein, and the servants 
grin, and the tenants roar, and then my poor dear 
mother taps me on the cheek, and calls me her dainty 
David. — Oh ! we are so merry in the castle. 

Emily, Aye, to be sure ; there's room enough for 
your wit to escape, without running foul of any body's 
understanding. 

Sir David. Yes, yes, 'tis a bouncer, and such a hajil 
for battledore and shuttle-cock— 



20 WHEEL [Cumberland 

Emily. Garnish'd round with pikes, and gauntlets, 
and branching horns, the trophies of the family — 

Sir David. Yes, and in the great parlour, such a 
string of Daws hanging by the wall — 

Emily, In ruffs and bands, and picked chins from 
all antiquity, like the whole court of France in a pup- 
pc«^ shew, with Dainry David, in the character of 
Punchinello, to close the cavalcade. 

Sir David. Not so ; but in the place of it your own 
fair portrait, if you please, and under it, in letters of 
gold, '* Emily, consort of sir David Daw'* — Lilies and 
roses ! what a lovely piece will that be ! 

Emily. Let it be a family piece then, and we may 
all have a part in it. 

Temp. Aye, aye, that's a hook to hawl me in with ; 
1 know it is ; but let us hear, let us hear what part 
you have laid out for me. 

Emily An heroic one, be sure ; you shall be^ — let 
me consider — you shall be drawn in the character of 
Agamemnon. 

Temp. Agamemnon ! why in the character of Aga- 
memnon, I would fain know. 

Emily. Because he was a warrior, like you, and a 
governor ; but principally bt-cause, if li^emember his 
history, he sacrificed his daughter. 

Temp. Hey! how! there I'm thrown out: that is 
a history 1 know nothing of. 

Sir David. Nor I neither. — Ah ! my good governor, 
speak a kind word for me ; all my hopes are in you. 

Temp. Fear nothing, my man of mettle ; keep a 
stout heart, and there's none of *em can resist the al- 
lurements of your fortune, though they may all be 
insensible to the beauties of your person. 

Emily. No, to be sure ; if you make love like an 
elephant, with your castle on your back, who can stand 
against you ? 

Sir David I don't know how it is, governor Tem- 
pest, but though 'tis well known that the first man 
nature ever made was a Welshman, and though I 



jict III OF FORTUNE. 21 

flatter myself I am pretty neat ly on the same model, 
yet here every ragged-headed fellow with a mahoga- 
ny face, because he can slip into an eel skin, and I can- 
not, slips into favour before me ; whilst the ladies 
stare at me, as if I had dropp'd out of the moon 
amongst them. 

Temp. That is because they lay aside the sight they 
were born with, and have eyes, like their complex- 
ions, of their own making 

Emily. Ah ! sir David, you are not up to them ; 
you are happiest with the good old lady in the coun- 
try ; your education ha-s been private. 

Sir David. Quite snug and private, always at home, 
always with mv mother. 

JEmily. And your amusements—^ 

Sir David. Never went abroad for them ; we had 
plentv of pastime amongst ourselves and the servants 
— cards I never touch ; drinking I have no head for ; 
and as for naughty women, I can faithfully assure you, 
I never come near none of 'em. 

Temfi Keep that to yourself, my friend, if you are 
wise ; for this world is so wicked, that a man is 
forced to counterfeit vices in order to keep well with 
it. — Ah! — Charles, how wears "this wicked world 
with you i 

enter Sydenham. 

Syd. Wears apace, frets itself out, grates most 
conloundedly upon the hinges : I almost think I shall 
live to see the end of it. — Don't go away, I want to 
have a word with you. {aside to Emily) 

Sir David. Oh ! mr. Sydenham, 1 rejoice to see 
you. 

Syd. How fares my venerable Cambro-Briton. 

Sir David. Terrible ill, for want of you ; house, 
equijjage, every thing is at a dead stop, till you set us 
going. — I call'd at your lodgings, and they told me yott 
was out of town. 

C 



22 WHEEL [Cumberland 

Syd. They did right ; I educate my servants in all 
innocent untruths. 

Temp. They gave me the same answer. 

Syd. They did wrong : to tell one and the same lie 
to two several visitors, betrays a poverty of invention. 

Emily. And havn*t you been out of town all this 
while? 

Syd. Hush ! hush ! ask no questions. — How can I 
quit the town with an affair of honour on my hands : 
didn't you challenge me to a game at chess ? and here 
I am, ready to decide it. 

Temp. Oh, that dull, dilatory, dreaming game, how 
I detest it ! — Any news, Charles, of the poor Wood- 
villes ? 

Syd. That is the very question I was about to ask 
of you. 

Temp. 'Sblood, you are as mysterious as a privy 
counsei;or: they say Woodville has gone off: nay, 
they circulate a very black and dismal story about 
him. 

Syd, As you have been governor of the blacks, I 
wish you would put the sooty slaves to death, that cir- 
culate such stories. 

Sir David. I hear sir George Penruddock has 
made a curious will, and given his whole property to 
a madman, who has been shut up in a cottage for these 
twenty years. 

Syd. And do you suppose, it would have brought 
him to his senses, if he had liv'd in a castle ? 

Temp. Come, come, sir David ; don't you see that 
cuckow won't be caught by you ? zooks, man, the 
thumb-screw would not make him plead ; thougli, let 
me tell you, when I've been set upon it, I have put 
tongues as stubborn as his into motion before now. — 
As for Emily, leave her to her drowsy game at chess ; 
for, depend upon it, my friend, that auy thing which 
tends to stupify her imagination, will be a point gain- 
ed in your favour, \exeunt Tempest and sir David 

Syd. His excellency is in one of his accommodat- 



Act 11^ OF FORTUNE. 23 

ing humours, and gives me an opportunity of telling 
you that I have brought Woodville back with w<^ ; I 
knew his point, and overtook him after about twelve 
miles riding, in the very crisis of his fate. 

Emily. Did you so ? then here's my hand ! for thou 
art the best soul living; with a heart of gold, and 
heels of feather, in the service of humanity. Ah ! 
why did cruel fortune cramp thy powers, when na- 
ture so enriched thee with benevolence ? 

Syd. Don't complain of fortune in my case ; per- 
haps the best fortune that can befall me is, that I have 
nothing to do with her : having little to bestow, I 
make up for it with good will ; had I abundance to 
give, the good will might be wanting. 

Emily. If fortune, however, would but put you to the 
trial, I should not tremble for the issue of it. Had 
Penruddock made you his heir, happy would it have 
been for poor Woodville. 

Syd. For him (to own the truth to you) I have very 
little compassion ; some old habits of good fellowship, 
perhaps, I can't quite shake off; but a gamester is in 
nature such a fool, in character so little of a gentle- 
man, and by profession so very close approaching to- 
wards a highwayman, that I am asham'd of his ac- 
quaintance ; yet, for my dear mrs. Woodville's sake, 
for my brave Henry's sake, and through them, by- 
implication, for my sweet Emily's, I have shelter'd 
that poor worthless desperado in my lodgings ; which, 
is a secret you must keep close and inviolable as your 
own purity. 

Emily. Doubt me not, for I can well suppose the 
consequences would be fatal. In one word, is there 
any hope for him ? 

Syd. I could not answer that in a thousand words ; 
for I have seen this strange Penruddock, and know 
not what to make of him. 

Emily. Is he a madman, as they report of him ? 

Syd, That I can't tell ; for so many people are 
mad, who yet have senses enough to conceal it, that 



24 WHEEL [Cumberland 

he may be so without my discovering it. He is as 
sullen «is a bear, and inveterate against VVoodville to 
the k ngth ot any species of revenge. 

Emily. That is not the character mrs. Woodville 
describes ; she conceives better ot" him. 

Syd. I wish she may not be mistaken ; we must 
leave the event to time. — And now, my dear lady, 
^vhen are we to mount the wedding favours ? 

Emily. So you will suppose, i am cast for trans- 
portation to the enchanted castle ? 

Syd. Enchanted it will be when you are in it ; but 
how can I suppose, or even wish, any otherwise, 
"When ruin is attach'd to the alternative ? 

Emily. You strike upon a motive, that may drive 
me upon wondrous self-denials. If my beloved mrs. 
Woodville falls, if my dear gallant Henry is beaten 
down, and crush*d by poverty and distress, at any sa- 
crifice I'll raise them up. 

Syd. Will you I then, by the powers of goodness, 
you are an angel ! 

Emily. But, in that wreck of happiness, I shall 
need all the help that friendship can bestow ; and you, 
Charles Sydenham, whom I place ever in the front 
of those few firm hearts I most prize and most de- 
pend on, must not desert me. 

Syd. Desert you, damn it, my throat aches so, and 
my eyes dazzle, that I can neither rigiitly speak to 
you nor see you — but, by the lord, I'll die for you. 

Emily. Not so ; but you musi come co me in the 
country : there you and I will tell old stories over a 
winter's fire, ind be as comfortable as two feeling 
hearts will let us. 

Syd. I'll come ; I'll come to you — walk, ride, fish, 
fowl, milk the cows, feed the poultry, nurse the chil- 
dren, laugh, cry, do any thing and every thmg you 
would have me — 1 will, upon my soul, I will ! 

Emily. Enough said; upon this promise we will 
part ; I shall be call'd for by my father, and you know 
his humour. 



^ct //] OF FORTUNE. 25 

Syd. I know him well for a most absolute, and all 
to be respected governor ; but if he had as numerous 
an offspring as Muley Ishraael, and as large an em- 
pire as Timur Khan, the proudest title he could boast 
would be that of being the father to such an angel of 
a daughter. 

SCENE II— a Street. 

PENRUDDOCK alone. 

Pen. So ! I am in London once more. — From soli- 
tude and silence, how sudden is the transition to 
crowded streets, where all without is noise, and all 
within mere anarchy and tumult ! thoughts uncollect- 
ed, jarring resolutions, avarice, revenge, ambition, all 
the turbid passions arming, like soldiers rous'd from 
sleep, to rush into the battle. Pity, I have none ; my 
heart is chang'd : I stopt in a by-place to reconsider 
mrs. Woodville's interceding letter ; a naked, shiver- 
ing wretch approach'd and begg'd my charity : she 
was importunate, and I, with a remorseless frown, 
bade her begone. — *' Alas !" she cried, " if I had 
looked you in the face, I might have seen there was 
no hope for me." I have the mark of Cain, the stamp 
of cruelty imprinted on my forehead. — ^She cut me to 
the heart ; I would have call'd her back and aton'd, 
but sullenness or pride forbade it. How rich was I 
in my contented poverty ! how poor has fortune made 
me by these soul-tormenting riches ! 

enter weazel. 

— ^Well, sir, is mrs. Woodville in her house ? 

Weaz. She is not there, nor any body that can tell 
me where she is : the servants are dispers'd, the 
chamber-doors all lock*d and seal*d, save one, in 
which a solitdry guard keeps watch, holding posses- 
sion in due form of law : 1 have seen it in its spleiio 
dour ; it is now revers'd, a melancholy change. 



26 WHEEL [Cumberland 

Pen. I'll visit it nevertheless ; it will be a whole- 
some preparative to the scene of luxury which, you 
tell me, I am to be saluted with in the stately man* 
sion of sir George Penruddock, {exeunt 



SCENE changes to an unfinished room, 
enter penruddock, we azel, and an attendant. 

Pen You are here, sir, I presume, in office, by au- 
thority from the late sir Gforge Penruddock. 

Aftend. I am, sir ; and though it is against our 
rules to aHmit any stranger, yet, as I know -nr. Wea- 
zel and he warrants far you, I make no objection t© 
your coming in. 

P^n. Nor to leaving us, I should suppose, within 
these bare walls ; thev defy robbery ; the scvthe of 
the law cuts close, and those who toUow it, will not 
be enrich'd by their gleanings 

ittend. \ pleasant gentleman, I should guess, and 
knows a thitig or two— Mr. Weazel, with your leave, 
I will speak a word with you. \exit nvith Weazel 

F^n. Here, then, was the residence of my once- 
beloved Arabella ; here she r ign'd, here she revell'd; 
and here, perhaps, in a desponding moment, she wrote 
that melancholy appeal, which wrung the weapon 
from mv hand, when rais'd against her husband's life. 
1*11 read it once again ; the scene conspires, a sym- 
pathetic gloom conjes over me ; and solitude, the 
friend of meditdtion, prompts me to review it.-—" By 
the death of sir George Penruddock, you will find us 
your debtors, in no less h sum than all that we possess ; 
3f you are extreme, we are undone : my husband, who 
expects no mercy, flies from me in despair, and in his 
fate mine is involved : if then you find an orphan in 
the world, whose parents could not move your pity, 
you mav think revenge his done enough, and take my 
|ienry under your protection." 



Act 11^ OF FORTUNE. 27 



enter henry woodville. 

Henry. Where am I ? what has happened ? why 
is this house so changed in its appearance ? 

Pen. Whom do you seek ? 

Henry. A father and a mother who dwelt here : 
If you have heard the name of Woodville, and can 
ease my anxious terrors, tell me they survive. 

Pen. Be satisfied — They live. 

Henry. Devoutly I return heaven thanks, and bless 
you for the tidings ; long absent, and debarr'd all cor- 
respondence with my family, I came with trembling 
heart, uncertain of their fate ; and, I confess, the 
ominous appearance of a deserted house, struck me 
with alarn» : but I may hope they have some other 
residence at hand — If you know where, direct me. 

Pen. If I knew where, I would, but 

Henry. Bui what ? why do you pause ? 

Pen. Because I can't proceed. 

Henry. Why not proceed? you know they live, can 
you not tell me where ? 

Pen. I cannot. 

Henry, What is your business here ? 

Pen. None. 

Henry. Do you not live in London '* 

Pen. No. 

Henry. What is your name, occupation ? where 
do you inhabit? How comes it to pass you know- so 
well to answer me one question, and are dumb to all 
the rest r* 

Pen. I am not us'd to interrogatories, nor quite so 
patient as may suit with your imp tuosity. 

Henry. I stand cotrectt d ; I am too quick — You 
will excuse the teelings of a son. ♦ 

Pen. Most willingly ; oul) I am sorry to perceive 
thtv are so sensiiive, because thi^ world abounds in 
mistiv. 

Henry, Now I am sure you know more than you 



28 WHEEL [Cumberland 

yet reveal ; but having said my parents are alive, you 
fortify me against lesser evils : I know my father's 
failings, and can well suppose that his affairs have 
fallen into decay. 

Pen. To utter ruin. Gaming has undone him. 

Henry. Oh, execrable vice ! fiend of the human 
soul, that tears the hearts of parent, child, and friend ! 
what crimes, what shame, what complicated misery 
hast thou brought upon us! — Rash, desperate, wretch- 
ed man ! This house was swallowed in the general 
wreck. 

Pen. With every thing else : sir George Penrud- 
dock had it for a debt, as it is call'd, of honour. 

Henry. A debt of infamy — and may the curse, en- 
tail'd upon such debts, descend on him and all that 
may inherit from him ! 

Pen. There you outrun discretion : he is dead, and 
you would not extend the curse to him that now inhe- 
rits. 

Henry Light where it will, I'll not revoke it. He 
that is Fortune's minion, well deserves it. 

Pen. He that's innocent does not. 

Henry. Can he be innocent, that stains his hands 
with ore drench'd in the gamester's blood, dug from 
the widow's and the orphan's hearts with tears, and 
cries, and agonies unutterable ? *Tis property ac- 
curst : were it a mine, as deep as to the centre, I 
would not touch an atom to preserve myself from 
starving. 

Pen. You speak too strongly, sir. 

Henry. So you may think : I speak as I feel.— 
Who is the wretched heir? 

Pen. Roderick Penruddnck. 

Henry. What ! Roderick the recluse ? 

Pen. The same. 

Henry. My father knew him well — a gloomy mis- 
anthrope, shunning and shunn'd by all mankind. 
V\ hen such a being, after long seclusion, lost to all 
sccial charities, and harden'd into savage insen- 



jict //] OF FORTUNE. 29 

sibility, comes forth into the \vorld arm*d with pow'r 
and property, he issues like a hungry lion from his 
den, to ravage and devour. 

Pen. Stop your invective ! Know him before you 
damn him 

Henry. Hang him, dull rogue, I do not wish to 
know him ; but, if you do, and think him wrong'd by 
my discourse, convince me of the wrong, and you shall 
find me ready to atone 

Pen. I would not have you take his character from 
me, and yet I think him to be somewhat better than 
you report of him ; however, you have put it fairly 
to the issue, and if your leisure serves to meet ine 
at his house, the late sir George Penruddock's, wi-hia 
two hours from this, you may, perhaps, see cause to 
blush for the severity of your invective : in the iivean 
time, I promise to make no report of what you have 
said, and neither aggravate his mind against you, nor 
warn him of your coming. 

Henry. If I can find my friends, within the time 
you mention, I will not fail to meet you ; but I should 
know your name. 

Pen. You shall know every thing in proper ti nne 
and place — till then, farewell. \^exit Henry"] Insolent 
libeller ! he has undone himself, and stabb'd the mercy 
in my bosom, whilst in the very act of rising to em- 
brace him. [exit 



ACT m. 

scliNE I — a mean afiartment in the lodging-house of 
mrs. Woodville. 

HENRY, ushered in by a maid servant. 

Maid. Walk in, sir, prav, walk in ; madam Wood- 
ville will be quickly at home. 



30 WHEEL [Cumberland 

Henry. Are you her servant. 

Maid. I do the work of the house, and wait upon 
the lodgers. 

Henry. Has she none else belonging to her ? 

Maid. No, no, good lady, she has none else but me. 
— If you are captain Woodville, her son, I hope it 
will be in your power to comfort her. 

Henry. Heaven grant it may ! — I am the person : 
you may leave me. [^exit"] — What a sad change is 
this ! My mother in this place — thus lodg'd, and thus 
attended ! — O nature ! let me not forget it was a fa- 
ther that did this, else — but that thought is horror- 
Hark, she is coming— 

enter emily tempest. 

May I believe my eyes ? the lovely phantom of my 
visions realiz'd ! 

Kmily. The gallant prisoner we bewail'd set free ! 
—This is a joy most welcome. I was inform'd you 
caird at our house for a direction hither ; I can make 
all allowances for your impatience ; but surely, sure- 
ly, Henry, you made none for mine, when all that you 
bestow*d upon me was a cold inquiry at the door, if 
such a being still was in existence. 

Henry. Chide not, but pity me ; the unfortunate 
are fearful of intruding. 

Emily. Say, rather, they are unkind, and wrong 
their friends, when they suppose them shaken by 
every breath of fortune. 

Henry. The world revolts from poverty. 

Emily. Are these the sentiments that you return 
with ? For shame ! a soldier to talk thus — Have you 
seen no misfortunes where you have been, or do you 
feel them only when they fall upon yourself? your 
noble mother does not reason thus. 

Henry. Her's are no common evils, I confess, but 
still adversity is a fair enemy ; patience can check it, 
fortitude can conquer it, religion can convert it to a 



Act nil OF FORTUNE. 31 

blessing. Even I, whom you reprove, bore it without 
a murmur, for honour was not lost, hope was yet alive 
— your image, ever present to my mind, brighten'd 
captivity, and dreams of future happiness cheer'd my 
warm glowing fancy ; but now 

Emily. What now ? stop there, and let me only 
dwell upon those objects that delight, although they 
may delude ; joy at the best is fugitive ; paint hope 
in brilliant hues, and it is joy ; the picture fades in- 
deed, and its warm tints fly off, but whilst they fly, 
they charm, and memory feasts upon them, even when 
they are vanish'd. 

Henry. Oh ! well applied, and genuine philosophy. 
—Anticipated sorrow, is like children's physic, sipt 
ere it is swallowed. — And now, my Emily, what 
means this mischievous efiiision, of so much light, that 
my weak eyes can't bear it ? why all this blaze of 
beauty ? 

Emily, Hush ! don't be silly ! it is no such thing — 
a little glad to see you, perhaps ; a little animated by 
an unexpected pleasure. 

Henry. I left you, as I thought, perfect in every 
charm ; but time, I see, still brings fresh tributes to 
adorn and beautify perfection. — How many hearts 
have you this moment in your chains } 

Emily. Nonsense ! not one : the lover I most rec- 
kon 'd upon has just thrown cfF his chains, and is at 
liberty. " 

_ Henry. Only to yield it up again with double devo- 
tion at your feet. Did you know him as I do, you 
would know, that, though impossibilities oppose his 
hope, reason can make no progress in the reform of 
his incurable passion. 

Emily Indeed ! then what is to be done with such 
a man ? how would you advise me to treat his case r* 

Henry. With pity, as for one who suffers without 
prospect of a cure ; with caution towards yourself, as 
holding it unfair to flatter where you cannot save. 



32 WHEEL [Cumberland 

MRS. wooDViLLE enters^ and embraces henry. 

Mrs. Wood. Henry, my son, my hero! welcome to 
my arn»s. 

Henry. Oh ! my dear mother — suffering, injur*d 
excellence ! {kneels) 

Mrs. Wood Stand up ! let me survey you — Why, 
you credit your campaigning ; yet you have far*d 
hardly — well, 'tis a good practice for bad times : we 
have not wherewithal to feast you, my poor Henry.— 
There is no gold grows on the soldier's laurels. 

Henry. I have a sword, madam, and that will al- 
ways furnish me a meal. 

Mrs. Wood. Go, then, and let it earn for you both 
food and tauie. A British matron sends her warrior 
to the fight, and -corns to damp his ardour with a 
tear: I'll sliare you with my country, — Oh ! my sweet 
Emily, my generous friend, I know you can forgive 
me. 

Emily. Not easily, if you devote a single thought 
to ceremony : 1 am here a party upon sufferance, not 
quite indifferent to the scene before me, but certainly 
no principal 

Mrs Wood. You must be ever such with me ; you 
have shar'd my sorrows, hard indeed if you might not 
pariake my joys. — Well, Henry, we must meet the 
time, and all its troubles, with what face we can : 
cowards and fools shrink at the blasts of fortune, the 
solid temper of a noble mind sets them at nought. 

Henry. I'll not disgrace your heroism with a mur- 
mur ; when your instruction points the way to virtue, 
and the example of my father warns me against vice, 
how can 1 stray ? 

Mrs Wood Alas ! your father — he is indeed — but 
we'll not speak of him : stand firm yourself, and give 
me cause to love you ; for errors of prosperity the 
world has candour more than enough ; now you have 
nothing left but your good name, of that be jealous in 



Act III] OF FORTUNE. 33 

the extreme ; so shall I be justified for having thought 
you worthy of that hand, which cruel fortune now 
irrevocably has snatch'd from you. 

Emily. Madam ! mrs. Woodville ! — I'll take my 
leave ; your business grows too interesting. — I'll not 
intrude upon your secrets. 

{is nvithdraiving^ but stofit by Henry) 

Henry. Tear not my heart away, but stop, for 
mercy's sake. 

Emily No, let us part. Your mother speaks the 
truth ; but I was then so happy I lost sight of it. 

{falls into a chair) 

Henry. There, madam, there ! see what you've 
done. Truth, that will let no happy self-deception 
pass, is virtue that disdains the graces of humanity. 

Mrs. Wood. My Emily, my life, my comforter, 
forgive me ' Amid a throng of sorrows, some un- 
guarded words will evermore escape us ; we vent 
them as we do our sighs, and know not what we say. 

Emily. Pray don't apologize : I am quite asham'd 
of it ; *tis nothing, I am often thus ; you've seen me 
so a hundred times — Only poor Henry made up such 
a face — his eyes set me a-crying — and now, good 
heaven, how 1 could laugh ! — Oh ! that is horrid — stop 
that if you can. 

Mrs. Wood. My dear, my dear ! come with me to 
ray chamber. 

Henry. Rest, rest on me, thou fascinating charm- 
er! 

Emily. Look, look at him ! — I wonder what he 
thinks of me — a fool, a fool, a foolish feeble creature. 

[exeunt 

SCENE II— -a saloon in the house of sir George Pen" 
ruddock, 

a number of upper servants^ in mourning — weazel 
enters^ and addresses them with much ceremony. 

Weaz. Gentlemen of the second table ! chiefs of the 
D 



34 WHEEL [Cumberland 

lower regions ! I am your very humble servant. I 
condole with you on our general loss : your late wor- 
thy master has paid the debt of nature ; poor sir 
George is no more ; but you are serious reflecting 
men, that weigh these natural events, and know that 
Death (as the great poet sings) ivill come when he 
will come. 

Jenk. True, sir, and all our wonder is, he did not 
come before, seeing what pains sir George took to 
quicken him. 

Weaz. Aptly remark'd, most worthy sir ; and I 
am greatly edified to see that you have put yourselves * 
in mourning ; 'tis somewhat premature, perhaps, see- 
ing the deceas'd is not yet interr'd, but it is a tribute 
of gratitude to your old master, and an earnest of 
respect to your new one. 

2d Serv. Of the past we have nothing to complain ; 
of the present we are a little doubtfi^. 

Weaz. You speak like sage, experienced men, well 
vers'd in all the dues and perquisites of service. I 
have my doubts like you ; Penruddock, 1 should fear, 
may be too much of a philosopher for your purposes, 
and you, perhaps, not quite enough for his. 

Jenk. We can't live without our comforts, mr. 
Weazel. 

Weaz. And fit it is that you should have them. — 
You, mr. Jenkins, I well know to be a man of taste, 
and have your little gentlemanly recreations — a sta- 
ble at Epsom, with a bit of blood, that gives you the 
fresh air upon the Downs ; another bit of blood in the 
commodious purlieus of Marybone, which soothes 
your softer hours : I doubt if this philosopher's wages 
would buy body-clothes for either. — In short, my good 
friends, I much suspect the golden age with allt)f us 
is past, the iron coming on. 

od Serv. Well, sir, we shall see : report speaks 
strangely of the gentleman, to be sure. When may 
we look for his arrival ? 

Weaz. Momentarily. — I perceive you have a whole 



Jet III-\ OF FORTUNE. 35 

battalion of livery servants drawn up in the outer 

^jenk. We have thought it for the credit of the es- 
tablishment to have them all in attendance and tull 
livery.— Does the gentleman bring any of his own do- 
mestics with him ? 

Weaz. Not many. 

Jenk Let him come as strong as he will, we have 
provided ; he will find a very handsome dinner, and 
a well-furnish'd sideboard. 

Weaz. 'Twill be a novelty at least. , 

Jenk. We have some very pretty wenches in the 
house ; sir George was very particular in that way. 

maz And you, mr. Jenkins, ^re no mean autho 
rity ; but mr. Roderick's taste seems to lie mostly 
towards old women of seventy. , ^«^e h*. 

4th Serv, Pray, sir, with what equipage does he 

travel hither ? , .,. TT«„Jo,r i 

Weaz. With one of nature's providing— Heyday . 

tvhat's a coming now. 

afiarty of livery servants rush in. 

Liv. Serv. No offence to you, mr. Weazel, but we 
would fain know what lay we are to be "PO" ; ^"^ 
whether the strange gentleman will be agreeable to 
allow us for bags, canes, and nosegays. 

Weaz, Bags you must wear, the graces of your per- 
son claim theV; canes you shall have, your J^erKs 
well bespeak thetn ; and as for nosegays, gentlemen, 
it is so modest a request, that even the hangman fur- 
nishes them to his clients. But hark, your master is 

arrived. 

Jmk. Stand by ; make way ! 

enter penruddock, throtigh a lane of servants. 
Pm. Are all these persons of sir George's house- 
Wtaz. All of his own establishment. 



SB WHEEL [Cumberland 

Pen. So many for the use of one ? they've females 
in proportion, I should hope, else 'tis a most impolitic 
establishment. 

Weaz. There are plenty of female servants in the 
house, but it is not usual for that sex to shew them- 
selves in the hall. 

Pen. If there is ever an old woman amongst them) 
send her to wait upon me. 

Weaz. I told you how it would be, {aside) 

Jenk, Please your honour, there's no such thing in 
the family. 

I'en, Shew me into your library then. 

Jenk. I beg pardon, there is no library. 

Pen, Right ! why should wealth be wise ? Who, 
that could feed upon the livings of the dead, would 
keep so many living men in pay to pamper his appe- 
tite ? you would be useless ministers to a philosopher ; 
therefore, whilst I am with you, I'll be none. — Shew 
me your gayest chamber. [exit attended 

SCENE changes to a magnijicent ball-rooniy richly 
decorated. 

enter penruddock, weazel, and attendants. 

Pen What's all this ? for what perverted race of 
beings was this abominable farrago of absurdity col- 
lected ? 

Jenk. This, sir ! we call this the ball-room. It 
was thu^ prepared for \.\iGfete sir George intended to 
have given on his return out of Cornwall, as this very 
nigh', if death had nnt prevented him 

Pen D( ath sav'd his cr-^dit ; and, as guardian of 
his memr.r\ , I wdl hnve this libel burnt by the com- 
mon hangn an, and its author prosecuted with the 
utmost t igour of the law. 

Jenk. We have other aprrtments, sir, if this is not 
to your liking. 

Pen. Leave me, if you please, [exit Jenkins and 



Act III] OF FORTUNE. 27 

servants) — Oh ! my beloved cottage, when shall I 
revisit thee ?— I told you of my adventure with young 
Woodvjlle, and the hard names he gave me ; would 
it not be a worthy punishment to imprison him for 
life ? 

Weaz, A moderate correction he well merits ; but 
imprisonment for life would be too severe a punish* 
ment. 

Pen, I think it would, in such an execrable dun- 
geon as this. — How long, sir, might it take to starve 
a naked man to death in a cold frosty night ? 

Weaz. Truly, sir, the calculation never enter'd my 
thoughts. 

Pen. I'll tell you then — about as long as it would 
take to drive me mad, were I to be here shut up with- 
out the power of an escape, 'Sdeath ! can a man 
that has look'd Nature in the face, gaze on these frip- 
peries ? why, sir, my cobwebs, which old Deborah's 
purblind eyes leave undisturb'd, have twenty times 
the grace of these unnatural festoons. What did sir 
George Penruddock mean by thus lampooning me ? 
I'll not wear a fool's cap and bells for any man's hu- 
mour, not I. — Sir, I must ever curse the moment when 
you broke up my repose in my small unsophisticated 
cottage. 

enter jenkins. 

Jenk. Captain Woodville is at the door, and de- 
sires to know if there is not a person here he was to 
call upon. 

Pen. Introduce captain Woodville directly, [exit 
Jenkins] — Mr. Weazel, you will expedite those mat- 
ters I instructed you upon, and remember secrecy. 

Weaz. 1 shall act faithfully in all things, to the best 
of my understanding. — What a mysterious animal it 
is ! 'Twould puzzle GEdipus to unriddle what he 
means, 

D 2 



38 WHEEL fCumberland 



enter henry. 

Henry. Bless me ! can this be so ? Am I in com- 
panv with mr. Pen ruddock "^ 

Pen. For the second time. — I recollect we met by 
accident, and had some inieiesting conversation. 

Henry Then 1 must thn^w myself upon your can- 
dour, and abide by any measures you may choose to 
dictate in conbequence of what has passed between 
us. 

Pt7i. You can hardly expect much candour in a 
chaiacter such as you painted — savage, insensible, 
lost to all social charities, a gloomy misanthrope. 

Henry. 1 spoke, as men are apt to speak, what I 
behtv'd upon report. — If you mean only to retort the 
words on me as their retailer, you still leave the ori- 
ginal auth<)rity in force ; but if you can refute that, 
you at once vindicate your own character from asper- 
sion, and bring me to shame for my credulity and 
levity. 

Pen. If I remember right, you quoted your own 
father as the authority on which you rested ; of him, 
thtiefore, in the first place, I will speak; of myself 
ill the last — Your father and myself were intimates 
through all that happy age, when nature wears no 
mask ; our boyish sj)orts, our college studies, our tra- 
velling excursions, united us in friendship.— This 
may be tedious talk, and yet 1 study to be brief, for 
my own sake as well as yours. 

Henry I'm all at.ention — pray proceed. 

Pen. On out reiutn from travel, it was my fortune 
to engage the affections of a lady — whom, at this dis- 
tant period, I Can't name without emotions that un- 
man and shake my foolish heart — therefore no more 
of her. Your father was our mutual confidant, pass'd 
and repass'd between us on affairs of trust and secre- 
c\ , whilst 1 was busied in providing for our marriage 
settlement i I struggled against difficulties, that tor- 



Act III} OF FORTUNE. 39 

tur'd my impatience, and at length overcame them. 
In that interval a villain had belied my character, 
poison'd her credulous mind, and, by the display of a 
superior fortune, prevail'd upon her parents to revoke 
their promises to me, and marry her to him. — What 
did this wretch deserve ? 

Henry. Death from your hands, and infamy from 
all the world. 

Pen. And yet, upon his credit you arraign my cha- 
racter ; — for that wretch is your own father — 

Henry. And the lady you address'd, my mother — ? 

Pe7i. Oh ! yes, yes. yes ! 

Henry. I'm dumb with horror. 

Pen. Can you now wonder, if, when arm*d with 
power to extinguish this despoiler of my peace, this 
still inveterate defamer of my character, I issue, as 
your own words describ'd me, like a hungry lion from 
his den, to ravage and devour ? 

Henry, I'll answer that hereafter ; and, by the ho- 
nour of a soldier, I will answer it as truth and jusiice 
shall exact of me ! But a charge so strong, so seru 
ous, so heart-rending to a son, who feels himself re- 
ferred to in a case so touching, demands a strict dis- 
cussion : I shall immediately seek out my father, 
whom 1 have not yet seen. 

Pen. If 1 accuse him falsely, it is not restitution of 
the debt he owes me, nor all that 1 possess besides, 
no, nor my life itself, that can atone for the calumny ; 
treat me not like a man, with equal chance of wea- 
pons, but spurn me like a dog. If I have spoken 
truth, confess that, though I have the fury of the lion 
you compare me to, I have, like him, instinct to jus- 
tify the ravages 1 make. 

Henry. 1 close upon these terms : when next we 
meet, we meet decisively. [^exit 

Pen. He that is once deceiv'd, may plead a venial 
error; but he that gives himself to be a fool twice 
dup'd, has nothing but his folly to excuse him. I 
parted from this strumpet world because she jilted 



40 WHEEL [Cumberland 

me : protesting never to believe her more, I cast her 
off; she now approaches me with Syren smiles, throws 
out her lures, and thinks to dazzle me with these vile 
scraps of tawdry patch-work finery. — Away with all 
such snares ! there's whore upon the face of them. 

enter jEUKius. 

Jenk. Is it your pleasure to be at home, sir ? 

Pen I shall be before long. 

Jenk. Do you choose to see mr, Sydenham } 

Pen. B all means, [exit Jenkins'] — The whole 
town are welcome to break in and plunder all they 
find : encumber'd with the trappings of folly, the 
sooner I am stript the better. 

enter Sydenham. 

Sir, I am proud to see you. This is indeed a kindness 
greater than I look'd for, even from you, of whom I 
had conceived so highly, to visit one that must appear 
to you in the last stage of human misery. 

Syd How so, sir, what is it you can allude to ? 

Pen. These symptoms of insanity. 

Syd. You surprize me, sir ; if you advert to the 
decorations of this ball room, be assur'd they are exe- 
cuted to a mij'acie ; conceiv'd, dispos'd, and finished 
■with great elegance, and in the very last taste. 

Pen. Heaven grant it may be the last ! 

Syd. You have liv'd long out of the world ; your 
eyes are used to Nature ; but in these times we never 
prize what we can enjoy for nothmg : of course Na- 
ture and all her works are out of fashion. 

Pen. And may 1 ask which fashion you are of? 

Syd. Sir, I am, as I told you, a mere idler, a rov- 
ing drone without a hive. To call upon me for an 
opinion, is to expose me to danger, for I a'm too ho- 
nest to disguise my sentiments, and my sentiments are 
tpo sincere to please tlie generality of those I keep 



Acting OF FORTUNE. 41 

company with — I am poor, but still such a plain-spoken 
fool, that if you was to ask me what I thought of you, 
I should infallibly give you my opinion to your face. 

Pen. Then give it, I conjure you : I have stiil my 
own conscience to refer to. 

Syd. Perhaps I may not treat you with the civility 
you require. Your conscience and I may differ in 
that respect. 

Pen. Proceed nevertheless. 

Syd, The first predicament I saw you in was a pe- 
culiar one. — Encounter'd by a man, a guilty one I 
own, who confess'd to the wrongs he had done you, 
and threw himself upon your pardon : he was in mi- 
sery, and at your mercy — a glorious moment was then 
in your reach ; for the honour of human nature, I 
wish'd you to have seiz'd it ; you seiz*d the pistol, in- 
stead, which he tender'd you, and when you might 
have conquei'd him by generosity, preferred the doubt- 
ful chance of revenging yourself in his blood. 

Pen. Go on, go on ! Cut deep, and never spare 
xne. 

Syd. A mediating angel stopt your hand, but still 
you slunk away in silence, sullen and mysterious : 
what the contents of mrs. Woodville*s letter were, I 
know not ; but whatever they might be, I understand 
they are unanswered, for I came this instant from the 
lady who address*d you. — Here you are not less want- 
ing in politeness than humanity. 

Pen. Facts, but not comments, if you please. What 
next } 

Syd. The son of your neglected correspondent is 
come home, a braver, nobler, more ingenuous youth, 
his country does not boast : I met him as he parted 
from your door ; what was in his heart, I know not, 
but in his features all was sadness, horror, and des- 
pair — I threw my arms about him ; he press*d me to 
his bosom, sigh*d, and broke away from me without 
a word. 



42 WHEEL [Cumberland 

Pen. If you held no discourse, how can you dive 
into his thoughts ? 

Syd. Because I know how deep and keen are the 
pangs of disappointed love. 

Pen. Do you know that ? I know it too, and ran- 
kle with the wounds, that time can never cure : tell 
me his case ; what is the lady's name, and whence 
his disappointment ? 

Syd. The mistress of his soul is Emily, the fair 
and lovely daughter of your neighbour, mr. Tempest: 
plung'd in his father's ruin, all his hopes are wrecked; 
honour forbids the match, for Tempest is not rich, 
and Henry (curse upon that daemon, gaming !) is un- 
done ! meantime, sir David Daw, a fellow cramm'd 
with money to a surfeit, proposes for the lady — 

Pen. What then, what then ? she will not marry 
him? 

Syd. I should suppose she will. 

Pen. Infamous prostitution ! is there a second wo- 
man to be found so base of soul, so lost to every 
sense — 

Syd. Stop ! on your life, no more : I must not hear 
the noblest sacrifice, that generosity e*er made to save 
a sinking family, so grossly treated by the very man 
■who is himself the source and fountain-head of their 
calamity — And now proceed, fulfil your whole design, 
complete their ruin — tear this devoted victim from the 
heart of her beloved Henry— i-drive her into the arms 
of folly — immolate affection, beauty, innocence, every 
grace and every virtue, to the luxury of revenge, and 
when you've done it — fall to your dinner with what 
appetite you may ! 

Pen. Stay, sir ! — I could reply to you, but my heart 
swells against this tyranny of tongue. — The time may 
come — nay, it shall come — when you'll repent this 
language. 

Syd. Not I, by heaven — I have a sword, that never 
yet was backward to come forth upon the call, and 



Act III'\ OF FORTUNE. 43 

second what I've said And now, because I'll give 
your vengeance its full range, and suffer none that I 
call friend to skulk behind my shield, I tell you Wood- 
ville will be found with me, whenever you think fit 
to seek him. — Your servants know the house, and 
will direct you to it. [exit 

Pen. Here's a bold spirit ! These are the loud- 
tongu'd moralists, who make benevolence a bully, and 
mouth us into mercy by the dint of noise and impu- 
dence — but I shall lower his tone. — Who waits? {Jen- 
kins appears) Tell my attorney I would speak with 
him. [exit 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I — an apartment in Sydenham's house. 
wooDviLLE and mrs. woodville. 

Wood. You strive in vain to comfort me ; my spi- 
rit sinks under a load of guilt, which all your pity 
and forgiveness cannot lighten. Is there a gleam of 
hope to catch at. 

Mrs. Wood. There seems an awful pause in our 
fate ; I dare not call it hope ; I do not think it war- 
rants us to treat it as 'despair. 

Wood. Have you had an answer from Penruddock f 

Mrs. Wood. None. 

Wood Heartless, unfeeling monster — 

Mrs. M^ood- Hush, hush ! you should not rail. 

Wood. I'll hide myself no longer ; I'll go forth and 
face his persecution. 

Mrs. Wood. Hold, be not rash. Where's Syden- 
ham I 



44 WHEEL [Cumberland 

Wood. Gone to Penruddock. 

Mrs. Wood. I'm sorry for it ; that will blow the 
flame ; their tempers never can accord. 

Wood. I saw the danger, and strove to divert hitn 
from the undertaking — but you know his zealous tem- 
per ; no remonstrance stops him. 

Mrs. Wood. I'll go to Penruddock myself. 

Wood Not for the world. 

Mrs. Wood. Why* what should hinder me ? 

Wood Consideration for yourself — and, though I 
have justly forfeited all right to counsel you, let me 
add, my earnest dissuasion. 

Mrs. Wood. This is no time for pride — think of 
your son ! 

Wood. Oh ' agony of my soul ! Oh, monstrous, 
monstrous villain that I am. — And look ! protect me, 
save me from the sight of him. {Jails on her neck) 

HENRY enter Sy and^ after a fiauscy s/ieaks. 

Henri/. Sir, be a man ! You fly too late to that 
protecting virtue ; if it is painful to abide this meet- 
ing, why did you risk the pain ? what was the good 
you might have gain'd, compar'd with what you have 
lost !* — A wife, a son, the sacred trust of husband, fa- 
ther, all that heaven committed to your keeping, 
stak'd (oh ! disproportionate stake) against a gam- 
bler's coin ! 

Wood. Truly, but sternly urg'd. — I thank you ! It 
has rous*d me. 

Henry. I'm glad it has, for it requires some energy 
to meet the appeal that I am bound to make : Pen- 
ruddock charges you with acts, long past indeed, but 
of the blackest treachery. How stands the truth ? 
I'm deeply pledg'd upon the issue of your answer : if 
you are falsely charg'd, I shall do what becomes me 
as your son ; if not, I've done him wrong, and have 
much to atone for. 



jlct /r] OF FORTUNE. 45 

Wood, V\\ give no answer ; I am your father, sir, 
and will not be thus question*d. 

Henry, Alas ! you are my father ; and my honour, 
which is all you have not taken from me, is so far 
engag*d, that I must have an answer. 

Mrs Wood. Take it from me ! — *Tis true. 

Wood. Hah ! do you turn against me ? 

Mrs. Wood. No, but I cannot turn aside from 
truth, and shrink, as you do, from confession, when a 
brave son demands it. — Penruddock has been wrongM. 

Wood. I've canceled all his wrongs; I've tendered 
him the satisfaction of a gentleman, and he accepted 
it ; Sydenham was present, and can witness it. 

Mrs. Wood. And what ensued? 

Wood. Your letter was produc'd, and he declin'd 
the duelo 

Mrs. Wood. Did he ? Now heaven be thank'd ! 
I've sav'd your heart one agony at least. — What 
would have been your crime, had you destroy'd that 
man ! 

Wood. Perhaps I did not mean to put it to the 
risk 

Henry. I hope you did not — I have now my an- 
swer, and must take my leave. 

(SYDENHAM runs in^ and stofis him) 

Syd. One moment, one short moment, my dear lad ! 
— For ever on the wing ? — I must shoot flying then j 
for, come what may, 1 must and will embrace you. * 

Henry. Measure not my affection, my good friend, 
by the few moments it can spare you : you have the 
soul of honour in you, know all its feelings, its refine- 
ments, and can trust that nothing but its duties would 
compel me to break from you thus abruptly — fare- 
well ! lexie 

Syd. There, there he goes — unfortunate, though 
brave, the darling of my heart, his country's gallant 
champion, redeem'd from long captivity to encounter 
sorrows at home, enough to rend his manly heart 

£ 



46 WHEEL [Cumberland 

asunder. — Who would not pity him ! who but must 
love him ! I do, from my soul. 

Mrs. Wood. Aye, Charles, you have a heart. 

Syd. I have a heart to honour him, a sword to 
serve him, and a purse — no, not that — confound it, 
curse it, for its emptiness ! — hang dog, I would it were 
as big and as full as a sack, for his sake — Damn that 
old crabbed cottager, that book-worm — 

Mrs. Wood. Peace ! you have visited Penrud- 
dock— — 

Syd. Yes, you may call it visiting. — He receiv'd 
me, planting himself in the very centre of sir George's 
splendid ball-room, like a gloomy night-piece in a 
gilded fi ame. He asked me if I did not think him mad 
— I civilly said, no ; which was a lie for your sake ;— 
but presently he led me on to give him his full cha- 
racter, and then the truth came out ; I told him my 
whole mind. 

Wood. What did you tell him ? can you recollect ? 

Syd. As for you, I told him fairly I had nothing to 
say in your behalf, but that I thought it would have 
been a very gallant aci to have forgiven you, simply 
because you had so little title to expect it. 

Wood. There was no great flattery in that, me- 
thinks. 

Syd. Hang it, flattery ! no ; I was past flattering ; 
for when I came to speak of Henry, and how all hopes 
of his belov'd Emily were blasted by your curst itch 
ot" gaming, 'sdeath ! I was all on fire, and shot philip- 
pics thick and terrible as red hot balls, 

Mrs. Wood. Why > what provok'd you to it ? 

Syd. What but to think how glorious an opportu- 
nity he let slip of rescuing the brave lad from disap- 
pointment, and defeating that rich blockhead of a 
baronet, that dunder-headed Daw, who waits to snap 
her up ; wasn't that enough to do it ? zooks ! had I 
swallow 'd Hecla, I could not have fum'd more furi- 
ously. 

Mrs. Wood. Still you don't answer to my question : 



Act Jr] OF FORTUNE. AX 

did mr. Penruddock give you to understand that 
Henry had nothing to expect from him ? 

Syd. No ; but I understood it well enough without 
his giving — I saw it in his looks ; if you would paint 
a head of Caius Marius in his prison, he was the 
very model of it : it chill'd benevolence to look upoa 
him ; Spitzbergen could not freeze me more effectu- 
ally than his marble face. 

Mrs. Wood. My friend, my friend! you are too 
volatile ; you only saw the ruggedness of the soil, and 
never search'd for the rich ore beneath it — And now, 
Woodville, for a short time, farewell ! to your bene- 
volent friend I recommend you ; and, if my auguries 
don't deceive me, Pll bring you better tidings when 
next we meet. ' \exit 

Syd. By heavens, Woodville, you must have had a 
most intolerable bad taste, when you could prefer the 
company of a crew of gamesters to the society of that 
angelic woman. 

Wood. O Sydenham ! I reflect with horror on that 
monster gaming ; that, with the smiles of a syren to 
allure, has the talons of a harpy to destroy us. 

[exeunt 

SCENE 11— an afiartment in Penruddock^s house. 

PENRUDBOCK aloue. 

Pen. I am weary, sick, discomfited. This world 
and I must part once more. That it has virtues, I 
will not deny ; but they lie buried in a tide of vanities, 
like grains of gold in sand wash'd down by mountain 
torrents : I cannot wait the sifting — Sydenham has a 
heart— what then ? his zeal, like a rich cordial, drunk 
to intoxication, loses its sweet nature, and becomes 
pernicious by abuse — Henry is young ; and, like the 
promise of a forward spring, flatters our hopes of 
harvest ; *twere hard to let him wither in the bud : 
he, too, is thoughtless, rash, impetuous— but he's a 



48 WHEEL [Cumberland 

soldier and a lover ; with them I sympathize — be- 
sides, his mother's in his fnce. 

enter henry. 

Henry, They tell me you would see me ; if I cbme 
anseasonably, appoint some other time. 

Pen, The present is your own ; command it as you 
please. 

Henry. I have done you flagrant wrong ; but as I 
cannot charge my memory with slandering your good 
name in any other person's hearing but your own, and 
that unknowingly, I have no other person to atone to 
but yourself. 

Pen, You have seen your father, and explain'd ? 

Henry. I have ; my mother, too, was present. 

Pen. Your mother present ! — May I request you to 
describe what pass'd ? 

Henry. You shall know all. — My father, at first 
sight, snrunk from me, conscious and abash'd ; I 
urg'd your charge upon him strongly, perhaps (for I 
■was gal I'd with many griefs) more strongly than be- 
came me : my high tone offended him, and he refused 
to answer ; a second time I urg'd the same demand ; 
my mother instantly replied, that your appeal was 
true — you had been grossly wrong'd.— — Her candour 
drew forth his confession, qualified with this excuse, 
that he had tender'd satisfaction ; hinting withal, that 
had the affair taken place, he would not have return- 
ed your fire. 

Pen. It is enough, I am satisfied ; you know me 
now to have been an injur*d man, betray'd by him I 
trusted, wounded m the tenderest part, and robb'd of 
all I held most dear ; if, therefore, I am become sa» 
vagey insensibky and all that you once thought me, I 
have some natural plea ; and, should you find me a 
hard creditor to one that was so false a friend, what 
can you say ? 

Henry. Less than I wish: your own benevolence 
inust.be my father's advocate. 



Act IV ^ OF FORTUNE. 49 

Pen. He has undone his family, lost great sunns by 
play, and chiefly, as I find, to sir George Penruddock, 
who supplied him also with loans till his estate was 
mortgag'd to its value, his town-house seiz'd, and bond 
debts hanging over him, that put his person at my 
mercy — It revenge were my object, these are tempt- 
ing opportunities tor indulging it ; if avarice were my 
passion, here are ample means for gratifying it. 
What have you now to offer on your father's part ? 

Henry, To justice, nothing ; some little plea, per- 
haps, on the score of mercy. 

Pen. State it. 

Henry. I am a soldier, sir ; and, were I circum- 
stanced as you are, I could not suffer myself to de- 
prive that man of his liberty, who had tendered me 
an honourable satisfaction at the peril of his life. 

Pen. Well, sir, I love a soldier ; and, though your 
arguments are not to be found in law or gospel, yet 
they have weight, and I will give them full conside- 
ration : we shall meet again. 

Henry. Have you any further commands ? 

Pen. A word before we part — You bear a strong 
resemblance to your mother — will you be troubled 
with a message to her ? 

Henry. Most readily. 

Pen 1 have to apologize for the neglect of an un- 
answer'd letter. — Say to her, I beseech you, that I am 
collecting spirits to request an interview with her 
here, before I finally retire to my cottage — This to 
your mother — now to yourself a word in secrecy and 
pure good will — I am told you are attach'd to a most 
amiable young lady, daughter to the honourable mr. 
Tempest, my near neighbour — by sad experience I 
exhort you, trust hot to chance and time ; make suit 
without delay, lose not a moment, but repair forth- 
with to mr Tempest. 

Henry. Ah, sir ! what hope for me ? 

Pen. A soldier, and despair ? For shame ! go, go, 
annouirce yourself, and take your chance for a recep? 

E 2 



50 WHEEL [Cumberland 

tion ; if he admits you, well ; if he declines your vi- 
sit, you have lost your labour, and I have given you 
mistaken counsel. Come, I'll attend you to the door. 

[exeunt 

SCENE III — mr. Tem/iest*a house. 

TEMPEST anrf SIR DAVID DAW. 

Sir David. With your leave, governor Tempest, I 
would fain crave your patience, whilst I open a bit of 
my mind to you in a quiet way, and without oflFence. 

Temfi. You may open it too without a preface, good 
sir David ; I am ready to hear you. 

Sir David. That's kind, that's courteous ! and I 
must say it to your face, ay, and I'll say it in the face 
of the whole world, that I have always found you as 
obliging and civil spoken a gentleman, as I ever 
cross'd upon in my whole life before — I speak it from 
my heart, I do indeed ; I speak the truth, and nothing 
but the truth. 

Temfi. Yes, but I don't want to hear it just now ; 
speak to the business, and leave truth to speak for 
itself. 

Sir David. But why do I say it ? why, but because 
I hear the people talk so much of your want of tem- 
per, and of the violent passions you throw yourself 
into ? Now I say 

Temp. Who cares what you say ? The people are 
not half so provoking as you, the retail hawker of 
their paltry nonsense —you, that, with silly acquies- 
cence, make men sick of their own opinions, by al- 
ways chiming in with them — you, that pelt us with 
ill-favour*d compliments, till rotten eggs and the pil- 
lory would be a recreation in comparison of them— 
you, that 

Sir David. O dear, O dear! who could have 
thought it ? now you have driven all I had to say clear 
out of my head. 



Active OF FORTUNE. 51 

Temfi^ Well, *tis no loss, if this is a sample of its 
contents. 

Sir David. I cannot, for the soul of me, get the 
words together again; though I had conn'd them over 
pretty closely, if you had not bounc'd upon me in such 
a fashion ; but, under favour, I could explain myself 
to your fair daughter, she is kindly and good-hu- 
mour'd. 

Temp.. Make your own way with her then as you 
can, for here she comes. 

enter emily. 

Well, child, if you can make any thing of this gentle- 
man, it is more than I can ; all I understand is, that 
he has been flattering my patience till he has put me 
in a passion. 

Emily. O fie, sir David \ don't you know you should 
never speak of patience in my father's company ? 'tis 
like complimenting a man upon his wife, after he is 
divorc'd from her. 

Temp.. Hussey, is your wit so unmanageable thafc 
it runs foul of your father ? — Hark'ye, child, a word 
in your ear 

Emily. Nothing else, I hope— but indeed, sir, I am 
half afraid of you. 

Temp. And well you may, you little slut, for you 
deserve — I'll tell you what you deserve — a better hus- 
band than this David Dunce. Mind now ! (but this 

is a secret) I don't quite insist upon your liking him 
as well as Harry Woodville. 

Emily. No, sir, that would be to debar me from the 
use of my eyes, ears, and understanding. 

Temp. And hark'ye — If you give him a smooth 
answer, and a civil passport into Monmouthshire, I 
am not sure, provided you are very penitent and beg 
hard, but I shall find in my heart to forgive you. 

[exit 

Sir David, O jubilate ! I'm glad to my heart he is 



52 WHEEL [Cumberland 

gone. Kever did I hear such a roysterer in my days. 
What ! d(ies he take me for one of his black negro 
slaves in Africa ? Have not I danc'd attendance long 
enough upon his humours, followed him like his sha- 
dow, laugh*d at bis jokes, echo'd his opinions, put up 
^•ith his swearing, and been as mute as a fish whilst 
he rated at the servants ? and now to fall on me like 
a cat o'mountain on a harmless kid — Oh ! if it was 
not for you, miss Emily, if my love for you did not 
keep me cool and calm, I would show a little of the 
spirit of the Dhws : I should be as hot and snappish 
as himself— Bui you don't listen to me, I*m afraid. 

Kmily What can this whisper m^an? He has 
had a stranger with him — a coarse, clownish man- 
but that can argue nothing— Henry he has not seen— 
Sir David. Will you not let me speak to you ? 
Emily. Oh ! yes, for ever : talk without stint or 
measure ; only let me meditate the whilst : my thoughts 
ivon't interrupt you, nor your discourse my thoughts. 

{8itii down") 
*^ir David. I should hope, lovely charmer — 
JEmily. Lovely what ? 

Sir David. Lovely charmer was my expression. 
Mmily. Oh ! very well ; it*s all the same. Go on. 
Sir David. I should hope, lovely miss Emily Tem- 
pest (for I won't say charmer), after the long attend- 
ance I have p; id, and the proofs I have given of my 
patience, as well as of my passion, that 1 have now 
waited the full time, which young ladies usually re- 
quire to make up their minds, whether to say aye or 
po, to a plain proposal. 

JRmily. What proposal do you allude to? 
Sir David. Surely you can't ask that question seri- 
ously at this time of day ; surely you must know that 
I mean a proposal of marriage. 

Emily. Right ! very true— I recollect that you pro- 
posed to marry me— Well ! what would you do with 
jne when you had got me ? 

Sir David, Lud-a-mercy ! well; what would I do 



Act IF] OF FORTUNE. 53 

with you ? That's comical, faith — why, in the first 
place, I'd whisk you down to the castle— 

£mily. Whisk me down to the castle — 

Sir David. To be sure I would, for why ? things 
are all at sixes and sevens for want of me : nothing 
like a master's eye ; a gentleman, who trusts to ser- 
vants in his absence, is sure to be cut up. 

Emily. Cut up ! what's that ? 

Sir David. Why, 'tis a common phrase — 

Emily. With the slaughterers of Clare-market— 
but let it pass ! — What am I to be done with then ? 

Sir David Oh ! as for that, we shall soon set 
things upon their right bottom again, and then we will 
be as happy and as merry as the day is long. 

Emily. Hold there ! I never bargain'd to be happy : 
you may as well teach the towers of your castle to 
dance, as me to be merry. 

Sir David Why, what should hinder you, when 
every thing, that money can command, shall be pur- 
chas'd to content you ? But I'm afraid, miss Emily, 
there is a little double-dealing in this business : I sus- 
pect your heart inclines to captain Woodville ; and 
now he is come to England, I suppose I am likely to 
be cut out. 

Emily Poor man! what between cutting up and 
cutting out, how you will be mangled ! — Wouldn't it 
be better to live single in a whole skin, than marry 
and be butcher'd in so barbarous a manner ? 

Sir David. I don't know but it might— -I won't say 
but it may be so — if I'm not agreeable to one, I may 
be agreeable to another — rich folks need not go a beg- 
ging — If captain Woodville is the man, why then, 
perhaps, I don't covet to be the master— if captain 
Woodville— Hush ! who's coming ? 

enter henry woodville. 

Emily. Henry ! 

Sir David. O lord ! my death warrant, {aside) 



54 WHEEL [Cumberland 

Henry. Well you may be surprised to see me here, 
and your wonder will be increased when I tell you 
that I have your father's privilege for my intrusion ; 
— >ut if you and this gentleinan, whom I understand 
to be sir David Daw, are upon business of conse- 
quence, I retire upon the word. 

Hir David A very ci^il person, I must say. 

Emily hit David, was the business we were upon 
of any consequence ? 

Sir David. To me of most immediate ; how did 
you consider it, 1 pray ? 

Emily As I do every other harmless common talk ; 
very entertaining whilst it lasts, very soon forgot 
when it is over ; but this gentleman has conversation 
of a sort that is apt to drive all other out of my re- 
collection. 

Henry. O Emily, Emily ! for heaven's sake— 

E.mily Hold your tongue. 

Sir David Nay, madum, the gentleman seems to 
understand himself very properly ; but I must thmk 
that you, miss Emily, considering who I am, and how 
I came here, do not understand me quite so properly; 
and I must say— 

Henry. What must you say ? Not a single word 
to this lady that in the slightest degree borders on 
disrespect ; and now, with that caution for your go- 
vernment, let me hear what it is you must say 

Sir David. Nay, nothing more ; I think I've said 
enough — your very humble servant. [exiC 

Henry. Loveliest of women, charmer of my sight, 
my soul, this absolute repulse of your rich suitor flat- 
ters, but frightens me. What will your father say ? 
whilst I am wholly in the fault, you will bear all the 
blame. 

Emily. If I am never blam'd but for your faults— 

** Why let the stricken deer go weep. 
The heart ungall'd play" — 

Jienry, Can you account for his indulgence ^ 



Act /r] OF FORTUNE. 55^ 

Emily, Can you expound the changes of the moon ? 
Can you explain why, when all other female hearts 
are fickle, mine alone is fixt? 

Henry. Ought 1 to suffer that? honour should teach. 
me to avoid your presence. 

Emily Yes ; but if you practice that honou*- upon 
me, I n^ver will forgive you. Come down from these 
high flights, if you please, and walk upon your feet, 
as other men do. If you are alarm'd at being poor, 
I'll marry that money-bag. and enrich you with the 
pillage of it — will that be honourable ? No, no ! most 
execrable meanness; therefore, away with it ! Spin- 
ster as I am, I may struggle on to a good old age, and 
give offence to nobody ; but a wife, without a heart 
to bestow upon her husband, is a cheat and an im- 
postor. 

Henry. Oh, cruel, cruel fortune ! why was it my 
lot to be the son of a gambler ? 

Emily. Rather say why was it not my lot to be the 
heiress of Penruddock, instead of that old fusty phi- 
losopher, who, when he and the spiders have stood 
centinels over his coffers, till watching and fasting 
have worn him to a skeleton, will sink into the grave, 
and will leave his wealth to be bestow'd in premiums, 
for discoveries in the moon. 

Henry. Come, come, take care how you fall into 
the same trap as I did : we must suspend opinions of 
Penruddock. 

Emily. Must we ? Nay, now I swear there's some- 
thing in your thoughts ; aye, and my father too looks 
wise and whispers ; well, if you have a secret, and 
won't tell it me, be it at your peril ! I'll keep mine as 
close as you keep your's. 

Henry. I'll compromise with you, and exchange 
confessions. — Answer me this, if Fortune should tura 
round and smile upon your poor disconsolate admirer, 
will you, who sway each movement of my heart, in- 
spire its hopes, allay its fears, animate its ambition, 
and engross its love I — Will you, O Kmily— 



56 WHEEL [Cumberland 

Emily. Will do what ? 

Hem-y. I dare not ask the question— *tis presump- 
tuous, base, dishonourable—— 

Rmily. And very disappointing, let me tell you, to 
one whose answer was so ready — Henceforth Pve 
done with you ; I shall now retreat into the citadel, 
and stand upon my defences : when you want another 
parley, you must treat with the governor. \exeunt 



ACT V. 

SCENE I — a chamber. 

PENRUDDOCK OTld WEAZEL. 

Pen. Thus then it stands— This house, and all that 
its voluptuous owner had amass'd within it, we doom 
to instant sale : some modern LucuUus will be found to 
purchase it : the mourners in black, and the mounte- 
banks in their parti-colour'd jackets, must be paid 
their wages, and dismiss'd.— So far we are agreed. 

Weaz. Perfectly, sir ; and if any young heir is in 
haste to be rid of his estate, these are the gentlemen 
that will soonest help him to the end of it. 

Pen. Mrs. Woodville's settlement, which, in her 
husband's desperate necessity, she had as desperately 
resign'd to him, is now made over, and secured in 
trust to her sole use and benefit. 

Weaz. The deed is now in hand, and a deed it is, 
permit me to say, that will make your fame resound 
to all posterity. 

Pen. Thank heaven, I shall not hear it ! The fame 
I covet blows no trumpet in my ears; it whispers 



Act r] OF FORTUNE. S7. 

peace and comfort to my heart. — The obligationsj 
bonds, and mortgages, of whatever description, covers 
ing the whole of Woodville's property, are consign'd 
to Henry, his son. 

Weaz. They are, and give him clear possession of 
his paternal estate. 

Pen. 'Tis what I mean, and also of the house in 
town. 

Weaz. They are ejfifectual to both purposes ; and, 
take it how you will, good sir, I must and will pro- 
nounce it a most noble benefaction. 

Fen. In this particular I'll not decline your praise ; 
for, doing this, IVe struggled hard against an evil 
spirit that had seiz'd dominion of my heart, and tri- 
umphM over my benevolence^t-this conquest I may 
glory in. 

Weaz. There yet remains, of solid and original 
estate, possessions to a great amount. 

Pen. Them I shall husband as untainted stock: I 
do not cut into the heart of the tree, I only lop off the 
excrescences and funguses, that weaken'd and dis- 
graced it. Now, sir, if these points are clearly un» 
derstood by you, and no difficulties occur that require 
explanation, we will separate, with your leave, to our 
respective occupations. 

Weaz. Your pardon for one moment — My profes- 
sion is the law : it has been my lot to execute many 
honourable and benevolent commissions ; some, I con- 
fess, have fallen into my hands, that have put my 
conscience to a little strain, though a man of my sort 
must not start at trifles ; but the instructions you have 
now honour'd me with exceed all I have ever handled, 
all I have heard of; and when this charitable deed 
shall come to be register'd in tl* upper court, I hope 
my name, as witness, will go along with it ; and if the 
joy with which I sign'd it be remembered in my fa= 
vour, I fancy few attornies will stand a better chance 
than Timothy Weazel. [eXiC 

Pen. 'Tis done ! the last bad passion in my breast 
F 



58 WHEEL [Cumberland 

is now expell'd, and it no longer rankles with revenge ; 
in the retirement of my cottage I shall have some- 
thing in store, on which my thoughts may feed with 
pleasing retrospection : courted by affluence, I resort 
to solitude by choice, not l^y to it for refuge from mis- 




, o - if 

I turn the moral n:ige, conscious of having triumph*d 
in my turn, I can reply to Plato, •' I too am a philo- 
sopher.** 

enter jenkins. 

Jenk. Mrs. Woodville desires leave to wait upon 
you. 

Pen. Am I a philosopher now i* (aside) — Admit 
the lady — [rxrV Jcnkhis'] — Where is my boasted cou- 
rage ^ Oh, that this task was over ' 

r 

enter mrs. woodville. 

Mrs. Jf'ood. If you are not as totally revers*d in 
nature as you are rais'd in fortune, I shall not repent 
of having hazarded a step so humbling to my sex, so 
agonizing to my feelings ; for I am sure it was not in 
your heart, when I partook of it, to treat a guiltless 
woman with contempt, or wreak unmanly vengeance 
on your worst of enemies, when fallen at your feet. — 
Shall I proceed or pause ? give me the sign ; I urge 
you not to answer. — Ah, sir ! you are greatly ag'- 
tated. 

Pen. I am indeed; yet if I can resolve to iuui 
aside my eyes from the still lovely ruin of your face, 
I may find powers to hear you. 
Airs. Wood. 1 am a wife— a mother 
Pen. Oh ! too much ! too much ! {he ivee/ia) 
Mrs. Wood, ril wait in silence ; I will proceed 
np further. 



Act r] OF FORTUNE. S5 

Pen. Years upon years have pass'd since I have 
heard that voice, yet in my dreams those tones have 
visited me; 1 have wak'd, and cried — " Speak to me, 
Arabella, oh, speak again !" — 'Twas fancy, 'twas il- 
lusion. 

Mrs. Wood. Let me retire ; I cannot bear to hiirt 
you. 

Pen. Pray do not leave me : did you know what 
struggles I have surtnounted, you would say I perform 
wonders — I could not write to you, judge wh'at it is to 
see you. 

Mrs. Wood. I thought that these emotions had sub* 
sided, and that solitude and study had made you a 
philosopher. 

Pen. You see what a philosopher I am. You ne- 
ver knew me rightly ; 1 had a heart for friendship 
and love ; 1 was betray 'd by one, and ruin'd in the 
other. 

Mrs. Wood. You have been deeply injured, I must 
own : I too have been to blame, but 1 was young and 
credulous, and Cdught with glittering snares. 

Pen. Ay, snares they have been ; fatal ones, alas ! 

Mrs. Wood. I have liv'd in dissipation, you in calm 
retirement : how peacefully your hours have pasb'd, 
how unquietly mine ' One only solace chear'd my 
sad heart — my Henry, my son. 

Pen, I've seen him , I've convers'd with him : he 
spoke unguarde(!ly, but disappointnieni sours the 
mind ; he t; eat d tiie unjusLly — but he resembles you, 
and 1 forgave him. 

Mrs. ]Vood. When you say that, you speak of what 
I was, not what I am. 

Pen. You are much cha>ig'd, much faded ; but I 
have your picture, fresh and fair as the first bloom of 
youth. 

Airs. Wood. My picture ! how did you possess 
yourself of that? 

Pen. By a most foul and infamous piece of knavery; 
a treacherous friend defrauded me of the substance, 



60 WHEEL [Cumberland 

and left me nothing but the shadow to contemplate ; 
but memory was faithful ; it has cheer'd me in my 
solitude. 

Mrs. Wood. If you are thus retentive of affection, 
I must suppose you are no less so of resentment ; why 
then should I repeat my sorrows? You know them. 

Pen. I know them ; I have felt them ; I have re- 
dress'd them. 

Mrs, Wood. Rcdress'd them ! What is it I hear ? 

Pe7i. What 1 have done, I have done ; I cannot 
talk of beneiits, nor will I hear of acknowledgments. 
You would have sunk — I could not chuse but save 
you. 

Mrs. Wood. I'll not oppress you with those fulsome 
thanks that pall the generous ear ; I will congratu- 
late you rather on those exquisite sensations which 
must far outvalue any price you can have paid for 
them ; I'll say to you in truth, that, till this moment, 
I had almost lost remembrance of your person ; doubt 
on my part, and reserve en yours, had wrapt a mist 
about you — now mercy beams, the cloud disperses, 
and I behold and acknowledge Penruddock once 
again. 

enter henry. 

Henry. You must forgive me. Though your ser- 
vants were drawn up to oppose my entrance, I broke 
through all their files, forced on by gratiuide that 
nothing could withstand, till I beheld my benefactor. 

Phi. Not much of a benefactor ; I have only re- 
Btor'd to you what my conscience could not keep. 

Mrs. Wood. In the name of goodness, what is it 
you have done ? 

Pen. Nothing but wanted stomach for a banquet 
where your son was serv'd up ; — in plainer words, 
prcferr'd my own cottage to his country house : Henry 
vanted a wife, a wife wanted a settlement, and I 
btood in need of neither. — I liope you and Tempest, 
are agreed 



Mt r] OF FORTUNE. 61 

Henry. A word from your lawyer silenc'd all ob- 
jections — If I have not felt the vicissitudes of fortune, 
who has ? — from the depth of despair, lifted on the 
instant to the summit of felicity. — Oh ! my dear mo- 
ther, help to some words that may express my grati- 
tude. 

Pen. No, no, she is mute by compromise : when I 
am quietly returning from the stage of this vain world, 
call me not back to lose the little grace that I have 
gain'd ; I would not be made a sptJaacle in my de- 
cline and dotage. 

Airs. Wood Will you again sequester yourself, 
and renounce the society even of your most grateful 
friends ? 

Pen. Madam, I have not perus'd but half the his- 
tory of man ; the pages are alternate, dark and bright ; 
I have read the former only : let Henry's virtue stand 
the test, and I have all the pleasurable study still to 
come. 

Henry. But how shall I abide the trial, if you only 
furnish the temptation, and withhold the precept that 
should teach me to resist it ? What if my virtue be 
hard press'd ; where but to your cottage should I re- 
sort for armour to defend it ? 

Pen. What can you want of me ? Go to your mo- 
ther, drink at the fountain's head; look back upon 
your fdcher, mark how the stream is sullied. Thus 
arm'd on each hand) I may say to you, in the words 
of Cato— 

Your bane and antidote are both before you. 
enter tempest and emily. 

Temfi. I have broke through all forms, worthy sir, 
in bringing you a saucy girl, who will fancy she is pri- 
vileg'd to pay her court to every generous character, 
that does honour to humanity, and is bountiful to her 
friends. ' 

F 2 



62 WHEEL [Cumberland 

Pen. I confess to you, mr. Tempest, I was ambi- 
tious to behold your fair daughter, but did not presume 
to expect the visit should spring with her — I hope, 
madam, there is something here present more amus- 
ing to your eye-sight than a crabbed old clown, who 
happens to have a little more kindness at his heart 
than he carries in his countenance. 

JEmily. True generosity is above grimace ; it is not 
always that the eye which pities, is accompanied by 
the hand that bestows : some there are, who can 
smile without friendship, and weep without charity. 

P€7i. Certainly the world is a great polisher; it 
makes smooth faces and slippery friendships. — Are 
you, may I ask, very fond of this fine town ? 

Emily, My father lives in it ; I should be loth to 
say I had a preference for any other. 

Pen, I suppose, mr. Tempest, you are one of the 
vainest men in England. 

Temp.. One of the happiest I am, and of your mak- 
ing ; for Henry Woodville ever had my warmest 
wishes. 

Pen. And I hope your lovely daughter meets those 
wishes with all dutiful compliance ? 

Ttmji. With the best grace in life ; she does not 
object to take the man of her heart, though I wish to 
join their hands. 

Mrs. IVocd Now, my Henry, you are without com- 
parison the happiest, or without pity, the most mise- 
rable of mankind ; here, if you rail to merit, you 
offend beyond the reach of mercy. 

Pen. True, madam ; but the sons of Cornelia did 
not disgrace their mother. 

Temjfi. There again ! that's something out of a book, 
like Emily's Agamcmnen, and if it was treason, I 
could not find it out. — But come, Henry ! here, in the 
presence of your benefactor, I bestow upon you all I 
am worth — a virtuous daughter* the only joy and' 
blessing of my lite : ujoney i have none, for 1 did not 
understand the arts of government : and when Emily 



Act r] OF FORTUNE. 63 

is gone from me I am without resources ; for I can« 
not, like mr. Penruddock, take shelter with the sci- 
ences ; and as for the arts, dajfjn me if I believe I 
have genius enough to aspire to the composition of a 
cabbage- net. 

Emily. Oh ! my dear father, let me conjure you to 
beUeve that those resources which my duty, my affec- 
tion have hitherto supplied, shall be doubled to you in 
future, when I have so kind a partner in that pleas- 
ing task. 

Henry. When you are not welcome to me, I must 
cease to be worthy of my Emily — If books do not serve 
for a resource, and ancient history is too remote, we 
can find heroes in modern times ; and you shall fight 
over your battles as often as you please. 

7\mfi. That is very pleasant, I confess, for there I 
can coaie on a little ; but then I grow warm with the 
subject, and Emily snubs me for swearing ; \yhich 
yoii know, mr. Penruddock, every soldier is privileg'd 
to do. . . . 

Ptn. I did not know it was amongst their privi- 
leges ; but this I know, they cannot, in my opinion, 
have too many ; and heartily 1 wish they had more 
and belter than what you have nam'd. 

enter Sydenham. 

Syd. I must either have the impudence of the de- 
yil, or a veneration for your character, mr. Penrud- 
dock, which apologizes for impudence,' when I ven- 
ture to appear in your presence, after what 1 foolishly 
said to you in oar late conversation. 

Pen.' Mr. Sydenham, I cannot allow you to call 
that language toolish, which springs from a heart that 
runs over with benevolence : as well you may blas- 
pheme the bounty of ihe Nile, because it breaks loose 
from us channel, and overflows its banks. 

Syd. Thank you, my dear sir, thank you heartily ; 
I have been as sour as crab-juice with the malice of 



64 WHEEL [Cumberland 

mankind, now I am all oil and honey, and shall slip 
through the rest of my days in harmony and good hu- 
mour. — Ah ! Henry-ir-Tempest — Emily — mrs. Wood- 
ville — all smiling ! — Why, I am like ihe man in the al- 
manac, turn which way I will, a happy constellation 
looks me in the face. 

Pen. Now you have join*d us, our circle is com- 
plete. 

Syd. Ah ! no, no, no ; whilst contrition asks admit- 
tance to atone for injuries, humanity can never shut 
its door, and say, My circle is complete. — Wood villa 
is in your house, {aside to Penruddock) 

Pen. Hah ! Woodville ! have you brought him hi- 
ther? 

Syd. No: we call'd at Tempest's, heard of your 
generous acts, and his poor wounded heart now melts 
with gratitude : even my flint was soften'd. 

Pen. Well then, it shall be so — keep this company 
together in my absence — such meetings should be pri- 
vate, [exit 

Mrs. Wood. O Sydenham ! generous friend ! I 
heard the name of Woodville, and I know your inter- 
cession points at him. Heaven prosper it ! But can 
it be ^ I doubt, 1 doubt this injury is too deep. 

Syd. Doubt nothing. I am confident of success— 
when the ice thaws, the river flows ; so is it with the 
human charities, when mt;lted by benevolence. 

Henry. Oh, what a soul is thine ! wnose ardour 
even impossibilities can't check. 

Emily. The attempt is bold ; but mark if this is 
not amongst the impossibilities that sometimes come 
to pass. 

Henry. Look, look ! your angry lover 

SIR DAVID DAW enters^ and stops for a while. 

Emily. Alas ! has this poor gentlemen no friend to 
save him from exposing himself? 

Syd. The governor bigins to bristle — walk aside, 



Act r] O^ FORTUNE. 65 

take no notice, and I'll accost him. Now, my brave 

knight, 

Why g-lows that angry spot upon thy cheek ? 
What do those boots portend ; and whither bound ? 

Sir David. Mr. Sydenhana, I am just now in no 
humour for jesting ; neither does my business lie with 
you. 

Temfi. With me then— What would my noble ba- 
ronet be pleas'd to say ? 

Sir David. I'm not pleas'd at all, governor Temp- 
est, and therefore it matters little what I say : I call'd 
at your door, and was directed to you hither, so I 
made free to step in : and now, to say the truth, I 
don't care how soon I step out, for my chaise is in 
vjraiting, and I am equipt., as you see, for my peremp- 
tory departure. 

Temfi. Let us part friends, however; if you can 
charge me fairly, do so ! I'll not flinch. 

Sir David. No, but you'll fly out, and that's worse. 

Temp. Not I : carry no grievances into Wales ; 
I'll be calm as water, say what you will. 

Sir David. Oh ! then I can say enough. — Did you 
not consent to my proposing for your daughter ? 

Temii. Why I did consent, I don't deny it ; and if 
Emily had not objected to your proposals, I should not 
have quarrelled with your property ; but I'm not such 
a Blue-beard as to deliver my daughter bound hands 
and feet into your castle. If you had not the gift of 
recommending yourself, am I to blame for that .^ 

Sir David. Am I ? Miss Emily can witness I took 
due pains. 

Emilij. O yes ! and let not my obstinacy discourage 
you ; for be assured that half those pains, bestow'd 
upon a heart less constant to its first attachment, and 
more regardful of its worldly interests, will command 
success, whenever you think fit to repeat the experi- 
ment. 



65 WHEEL [Cumberland 

Temp. There — there — what more is to be said ?— 
you see how the case stands ; 1 had no absolute con- 
trol over my daughter's affections, and somebody else 
had. 

Sir David. Well, sir, I understand you now ; and 
if you are only governor abroad, and not at home, I 
am your very humble servant. [^exit 

Temp,. Well, your humble servant, if you come to 
that ; and a good journey to you — aye, and a good 
riddance to boot. Isn't it so, my Emily ? What, does 
that David think 

"I wear my heart upon my sleeve 
For Dav}s to peck at ?" 

/ 
'enter TfEU rvudock, folloived by woodville. 

Pen. Mrs. Woodville, your husband and I have 
concurr'd in opinion that the only way of adjusting 
such differences as subsisted between us, is by con- 
signing them at once to oblivion, trusting that you and 
Henry also will do the same by those errors, which 
now are fortunately heal'd. and can never be repeated. 

Wood. Humbled as I am in conscience, and over- 
whelm'd by generosity, I am ill able to find words for 
what, in circumstances like mine, I ought to say to 
each here present in particular, and all in general. 
Wherever 1 direct mv eyes thev are saluted with a 
countenance, which, though entitletl to reproach me, 
seems to hold forth promises of pardon: but pe^'haps 
even from guilt like mine, some good may be t ^ct- 
ed ; and my son, when he shall be blest with a wife, 
lovely and virtuous as her mother, will recollect the 
follies of his father, and avoid his fate. 

Pen. Here we conclude. — We all have cause of 
thankfulness, but I the most ; for Pve escap*d the pe- 
rils of prosperity : the sudden onset stagger'd me ; 
but temperate recollection, and the warning calls of 



Act r] OF FORTUNE. ^T 

some here present, taught me to know that the true 
use of riches is to share ihem with the worthy ; and 
the sole remedy fop injuries, to forgive them. 



END OF THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 



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